


A Single Truth

by deansparkles



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Durin Family Feels, Frerin Lives, Gen, M/M, Rating May Change, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 20:10:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 42,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5553710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deansparkles/pseuds/deansparkles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You agree on undertaking a journey halfway across Middle Earth for a quest you do not believe will succeed? To reclaim a mountain you refuse to call home?”<br/>Frerin scoffs. “Well, that sums it up nicely.”</p><p>The Hobbit AU in which Frerin survived the Battle of Azanulbizar, joins the quest to reclaim Erebor, and battles some demons of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_**B**_ ilbo’s never particularly liked having guests over, cramming up his personal space, disrupting the order of things. More so if those guests show up unannounced, _unexpectedly_. But he refuses to let his frustration show more than he has to and tries to wear his mask as bravely as he can, clenching his jaw and forcing a polite smile while his insides are boiling — it’s the respectable thing to do.

But there is, Bilbo thinks grimly, a line. And now, with the strange picture of no less than thirteen Dwarves and a Wizard seated around his dining table, that line has been crossed. The room is jam-packed, with no chair left for Bilbo to sit on, so he awkwardly hovers in a corner somewhere behind Gandalf’s back, his fingers interlaced on his chest as he impatiently waits to finally receive an explanation for all of this.

He looks first at Thorin, who’s quietly spooning his soup with an astounding display of table manners Bilbo didn’t know Dwarves were capable of. It’s a rather humble type of stew Bilbo quickly threw together using the few edible things he still had left, and it’s really not much — especially not compared to the feast the other twelve Dwarves had just moments ago. But despite his earlier demeanour, Thorin didn’t complain or ask for more. He wordlessly accepted the bowl, albeit a bit gruffly, but not unkindly.

A glance at the table tells Bilbo that a plate of biscuits also appears to have survived the Dwarves’ attack on his pantry. Though, not for much longer, he surmises when he notices how Dwalin’s hawk-like eyes are fixed upon the heap of pastries.

Bilbo directs his next glance at Gandalf, who still hasn’t deemed it necessary to supply even an attempt at a sufficing explanation for all of this commotion on what had promised to be such a peaceful and, more importantly, _uneventful_ evening.

He is just about to open his mouth, requesting exactly that, when he hears that dreadful sound. Again.

_Thump, thump, thump._

“Another one of yours?” Bilbo asks Thorin, hoping he doesn’t sound _too_ exasperated.

Thinking back to their frosty introduction just a few moment ago, Bilbo expects a sarcastic remark laced with some hidden insult, maybe a dismissing grunt. But no, there’s nothing of the sort. There’s no reply, no indication that Thorin has even heard Bilbo speak. Instead, the Dwarf lifts his head, stops eating. The spoon slips from his grip and hits the bottom of the bowl with a dull thud. He shares a look with Dwalin, his eyes wide, his lips parted.

“I thought you said he wouldn’t come,” Dwalin says, the tone of his voice resembling the strange look on Thorin’s face.

“He won’t.”

“Who’s at the door then?”

Bilbo does not linger to await Thorin’s answer. He quickly excuses himself from the rest of his guests, and, in a considerate pace, makes his way to the source of the unwelcome noise. He hears the Dwarves muttering behind him, and almost expects Thorin to follow him to the door, but when he looks back everyone is still sitting in their seats.

He hasn’t even passed the threshold of his dining room, when the person at the door decides to knock once more, this time so forcefully and loud that Bilbo wouldn’t be surprised if he is going to find a dent in the delicate wood tomorrow.

“Yes, yes, yes, _calm down_! I’m coming!” He turns forward again, picking up speed and suppressing the urge to groan. Are thirteen Dwarves not enough for one evening? What’s coming next — an Elf? A Man? An Oliphaunt?

With more verve than needed he swings open the round door to reveal yet _another_ Dwarf standing on his porch. The stranger has his hand raised and curled into a fist, apparently just having been about to knock _again_. Bilbo narrows his eyes at the gesture, and the Dwarf quickly drops his hand, awkwardly patting the side of his thigh.

“You must be the burglar.”

“Burglar?” Bilbo echoes, an unpleasant feeling spreading through his gut as the word rolls over his lips. Who do these Dwarves think he is?

“You don’t know?” The Dwarf snorts and shakes his head, a wry smile appearing on his features. “Well, this is going to be just great, I can already feel it.”

“Don’t know what?” Bilbo wants to know, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

He cannot help but notice that the Dwarf’s looks are strikingly similar to those of Thorin. They share the same prominent shape of nose and the same thin lips, though this one’s hair is a few shades brighter, almost dark blond and with no streaks of silver in it. There’s not even a hint of a frown on the stranger’s face, and he seems young— _younger_ , more carefree in the way he holds himself. Less regal.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mister Boggins,” the Dwarf announces, already brushing past him.

“It’s _Baggins_ ,” Bilbo instinctively returns. It’s such a short and simple name, how difficult can it be to get it right on the first try?

“Oh, I know,” the Dwarf nonchalantly replies over his shoulder. The grin on his face looks entirely too close to smugness to Bilbo’s liking.

Bilbo’s chest puffs up, now downright overflowing with annoyance. The sheer audacity of these... these _Dwarves_.

Bilbo merely lifts his eyebrows at the sight of the Dwarf’s incredibly dirty and ragged boots, when his eyes wander further, and he discovers the muddy spots on the floor he has just scrubbed this very morning. He takes a deep breath to calm down again and presses his mouth firmly shut. Gandalf has _a lot_ to answer to.

“Frerin, at your service.” The Dwarf does not bow, but after everything Bilbo has witnessed in these last few moments — these last few hours, really — he cannot say he’s surprised at the lack of manners and the seemingly non-existent courtesy.

“Where are the others?” Frerin cocks his head to the side, his eyes roaming the room. “Did my brother already arrive? Wouldn’t put it past him to get lost in a small town like this.”

_Brother_ , Bilbo repeats internally. Of course. Arrogance and plain rudeness appear to run in the family.

“Dining room,” he grinds out between gritted teeth, indicating to his right.

Frerin has already turned his back on him, rushing to said dining room with large steps. Bilbo follows him with a held-back sigh.

The Dwarf stops short at the entrance, so abruptly that Bilbo almost crashes into him. He keeps mumbling under his breath until his shoulders sink with a deep exhale.

“Twelve,” Frerin whispers. “So few.”

“Excuse me, _few_?!” Bilbo exclaims, a tad louder than he means to.

_That_ grabs the other Dwarves’ attention. The muttering stops in an instant. Silence falls over the dinner table, and each of the fourteen heads turn to look at them. Confusion shows in all of their faces, and Bilbo quickly realises that Thorin’s brother wasn’t part of the plan, not at all.

Whatever the plan _is_.

Out of all the Dwarves, Fili and Kili recover the quickest, and after a short, stunned moment their lips begin to spread into wide smiles. Fili gives Frerin a nod, while Kili almost springs up from his seat. “Uncle. You came!”

Frerin inclines his head and gives both of his nephews a fond smile, before he turns, focussing his attention on Thorin’s seated figure before him. Thorin stares up at Frerin, as if he cannot believe what he is seeing. The ghost of a smile tugs at his stern features, and Bilbo sees the slight movement as he opens his mouth and—

“I suppose Dain said no then?” Frerin says, and Bilbo almost flinches at the sharpness in his voice. “Good for him. At least _someone_ still possesses some common sense in this family.”

A shadow falls over Thorin’s face, and every hint of the smile evaporates. He tears his eyes away from his brother and turns to the company instead. If possible, his shoulders grow even more tensed.

“The meeting in Ered Luin?” Dwalin inquires, the hope in his eyes already deflating. “What did the Dwarves of the Iron Hills say? Isn’t Dain with us?”

Thorin takes a deep breath before he answers. “They will not come. They say this quest is ours and ours alone.”

“You’re going on a quest?” Bilbo interrupts, unable to keep quiet any longer.

“I wonder why,” Frerin says, his voice soaked with sarcasm as he continues as if Bilbo hadn’t spoken. “If I had to take a guess it’s probably because he doesn’t want to risk the lives of his people in a vain attempt to battle a live, fire-breathing dragon.”

Thorin’s eyes flicker to the side, but he doesn’t turn.

“A dragon?” Bilbo repeats. The glance Frerin throws him is close to pity, which only succeeds in rising Bilbo’s temper further. “Can someone _please_ explain to me what is going on here? Why did you call me a burglar? I’ve not stolen a thing in my life!”

“He doesn’t know anything about this, does he?” Frerin guesses. “A Hobbit, Thorin, really? A Hobbit? Why didn’t you ask Fili and Kili to join this suicide mission while you were at it— oh wait, I forgot, you _did_.”

Now Thorin reels around, the legs of his chair scraping against the floor with a loud squeak.

“I did not need to ask them,” he snaps. “They know where their loyalties lie.”

Fili and Kili are conveniently silent in their corner of the room, and Bilbo cannot blame them for it. Fire rages in Frerin’s eyes, and Thorin’s face is painted with an entire spectrum of emotions, with seemingly neither of them willing to back down. Bilbo clears his throat, a frail attempt at hoping to defuse the arisen charge in the air.

“Oh, and I don’t?” Frerin snarls back. “Is that what you’re saying? Do you _really_ think this is what Father would have wanted you to—”

“Boys, boys,” Balin barges in, one hand raised in an appeasing gesture. “I believe there is time for that later. We oughtn’t make our host more uncomfortable than he already is.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo says quietly.

Frerin and Thorin are still glaring at each other, the tension in the room almost tangible.

“Frerin.” The arched eyebrows make Balin look strangely strict.

Frerin finally drops his gaze, and Thorin’s frown immediately changes into something softer as soon as his brother has his back on him. Thorin sits down again, slowly, as if his bones were aching. He seems more tired, older, as his fingers curl around the spoon. He stares into the bowl for several long moments until he firmly pushes the soup away from him, apparently having lost his appetite. Frerin slumps down in the seat between Gandalf and Dwalin, snatching the plate of biscuits from the firm grip of the latter.

“Oy!” Dwalin protests.

Frerin gives him a half-hearted smirk, taking a large bite. Dwalin shakes his head, his lips quirking up into a fleeting smile before his expression turns serious. He leans closer to Frerin, keeping his voice low.

“Was that really necessary?” It’s clear that he’s not referring to the biscuits.

“It’s even worse than I thought.” Frerin’s reply is equally low, and Bilbo inconspicuously moves closer to properly make out the words. “Thirteen, Dwalin. Thirteen. We are never going to make it.”

“Thorin knows the odds. We all know the odds.”

“You weren’t there.” Frerin’s eyes become distant for a moment, and Bilbo recognises the fear in the Dwarf’s rigid shoulders, hears it in the urgency of his hushed voice. “You didn’t see the dragon. You didn’t see the devastation, all of those people burning alive, the screams... Smaug came, and the entire defence of Erebor _and_ Dale didn’t stand a chance. I’m telling you, we won’t make it. Not with so few in number.”

Dwalin shakes his head again, but the look in his eyes softens. “And yet you’re still here.”

“He’s my brother,” Frerin says simply. He holds Dwalin’s gaze for a while longer until he sags back into his chair and looks away, silently nibbling on the chunk of biscuit in his hand.

“Bilbo, my dear fellow?” Bilbo turns away from Dwalin and Frerin to look over at Gandalf to his right. “Let us have a little more light, please.”

And so Bilbo studies the map, listens to the story of the Dwarves and their lost kingdom, sees the hope flare up in Thorin’s eyes when Gandalf hands him the key that belonged to his father. He watches them argue, hears Thorin’s speech, and he sees it. Sees that there is no doubt that all of these Dwarves would be willing to follow their leader anywhere, no matter how great the danger and risks. Sees just how much they believe in this journey, how much they believe in Thorin. It’s visible in all of their awe-struck faces, in the flaring determination in their eyes, how it grows stronger with each passing second.

No, not all of the Dwarves, Bilbo quickly corrects himself. Frerin is the only one not to participate in the shouting, the wild gesturing, the excited battle cries. Despite all his earlier abrasiveness, he remains quiet, and his gaze is entirely set upon his brother, and upon his brother alone. He doesn’t waste one single glance at the map, nor on the key in Gandalf’s hand. It’s a staggering contrast — the more Thorin’s eyes begin to shine, the dimmer the look in Frerin’s becomes.

Just as the contract is shoved into his hands, Bilbo’s eyes catch Frerin’s across the dinner table. The Dwarf meets his stare, briefly, until he looks away, squeezing the biscuit in his clenched fist so tightly until it’s nothing more than a heap of crumbles on Bilbo’s dining room floor.

He does not even look angry anymore, Bilbo realises. He looks sad.

##

_**T**_ he Hobbit has fainted.

Frerin stands in the doorway, leaning idly against the yellow-painted wall as he watches Thorin carry their passed-out host into the living room. The peacefulness of sleep has taken away the substance of his — rather grouchy — character and makes Bilbo appear utterly small and fragile in his brother’s battle-hardened arms. So small and fragile that Frerin sets his jaw, trying with all his might to _not_ make another snappy remark about the absurdity of assigning a Hobbit to face and steal from an enormous and vicious creature as Smaug.

How many of their kind have actually dared to venture beyond the borders of their rolling hills, beyond the safety of their gardens? Not many, he supposes. And certainly not this Hobbit, no matter what tales Gandalf appears to have spun to gain Thorin’s approval on this matter. The halfling almost gouged his eyes out at the sight of some harmless mud on his floor — how can they expect him to survive months on the road?

Thorin gently puts Bilbo down into the cushioned armchair next to the fireplace and stares at the sleeping figure for a few moments longer before he releases an exasperated sigh, no doubts sharing the thoughts that have just crossed Frerin’s mind.

It’s not as if Thorin isn’t aware of how reckless the idea of reclaiming Erebor is, Frerin knows that. But his big brother still deems the quest as necessary and the goal more important than the means. It’s hard to argue with someone who knows all of the risks and dangers, but simply chooses to ignore them and do the damn thing anyway.

“So, he fainted, huh?” Frerin fails his feeble attempt to keep the vindicated tone out of his voice. “Very promising.”

Thorin silently glowers at him. Dwalin’s broad figure appears in the doorway, and his gaze flickers from the sleeping Hobbit to Frerin and then back to Thorin. “I’ll get some tea,” he announces gruffly.

“I suppose that would be wise,” Gandalf agrees, taking place in the chair opposite of Bilbo.

“What exactly do you intend to to now?” Thorin asks, staring down at the seated Wizard.

“Well, I thought it would be best to wait for him to wake up, don’t you think?” Gandalf suggests calmly. “Shouldn’t take too long.”

Thorin looks like he’s fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Frerin shares the sentiment.

“Yes,” his brother snaps, “and _then_? He had no knowledge of this quest, or its importance. He didn’t know anything _at all_. You told me he was the best choice for his task, you said—”

“I know exactly what I have said, Thorin Oakenshield, there is no need to remind me of it,” Gandalf interrupts him. “I will talk to him. He will join the quest, of that I am fairly certain. Give it some time.”

The Hobbit’s eyes flutter open just in time as Dwalin appears around the corner with a large mug of steaming tea in his grip. He wordlessly shoves it into the perplexed halfling’s hands, keeping his mouth pressed into a thin line, and disappears as fast as he came.

Bilbo’s hands clench tightly around the mug, and his eyes widen in shock as his memory seems to catch up with him. “Please tell me I didn’t faint.”

Thorin sighs again and directs one last stern look at the Wizard before he turns around and exits the living room.

“Are there any other options?” Frerin asks him. “For the burglar, I mean. Something tells me persuading the tiny grump to come won’t be as easy as Gandalf believes it to be.”

Thorin tries to brush past him, but Frerin grabs his brother by the sleeve and holds him firmly in place. “What, you’re ignoring me now? Thorin, come on.”

“Frerin, not now,” Thorin says, sounding unbelievably tired.

“Yes, _now_ , “ Frerin insists. He stands up straight and wipes his sweaty hands on his trousers. “Look, I am sorry about earlier. I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that in front of everyone. It wasn’t fair.”

“So you are going to yell at me in private instead?”

The knot in Frerin’s stomach makes it hard for him to breathe. He knows he’s already screwed this up, and the journey hasn’t even _begun_ yet. He didn’t travel all this way to yell at his brother, he was determined not to. But seeing them all there, seeing Fili and Kili, seeing Gandalf... Suddenly it hit him, that this is real, this is really happening. His brother is going into certain death, and no matter what he does or say, he cannot stop it.

Only twelve other Dwarves have answered Thorin’s call. There will be no army standing beside them against the dragon. All of it seemed even more senseless and vain than before, and something inside him just _snapped_ , all his previous resolutions to keep calm and accept Thorin’s decision vanished, and now his inability to control his own temper has once again left him with a broken mess of a situation he only ever manages to make worse.

His first instinct is to run, go back home, but he can’t do that, not now, not with Thorin, not with this. He needs to fix it, put the broken shards back together again, convince Thorin of his sincerity, show him his support. Which, after all, is the only thing Thorin has ever asked of him.

“We need to talk,” he says at last, glad that his voice doesn’t waver.

“What for?” Thorin asks, crossing his arms. “You have made your opinion on this matter perfectly clear. Several times now. You do not need to bother trying anymore, I won’t be swayed. I am sorry you travelled all this way, I am, but it was a waste of time.”

“I’m not here to change your mind,” Frerin says. “I won’t succeed anyway, I know that now. I’ve never seen you so sure about anything.”

“But you said—”

“I may have overreacted. Again.” He takes a deep breath. “But honestly, Thorin, can you blame me? You just sprang all of this at me! I had no time— You came back after looking for Father, and before I even had the chance to deal with _that_ revelation, you quite flatly announced your intention to go on a quest to reclaim Erebor, after I didn’t hear you speak that name in years. And suddenly there was little else you talked about, as if there was— is not a single thing in the world more important to you than reclaiming that mountain. You were so ready to abandon everything we’ve fought for, everything we built, our _home_. So of course I was mad at you. I still am, I am bloody furious with you, Thorin. You’re leaving everything behind for these... these _ruins_ , on a whim, planted in your head by a Wizard you met in a _pub_ for Mahal’s sake, in Bree of all places— And now I find out that the person on whose shoulders this entire undertaking lies upon is not an expert burglar at all, but a untried, cranky Hobbit who already faints at the mere _mention_ of dragon. With only thirteen Dwarves at your side!”

His voice rises at the last sentence, and while letting all the steam out seems relieving in theory, he now only feels hollow after doing so. Thorin’s face has turned blank, and for several agonising moments all he does is stand utterly still, staring at Frerin, and the only thing Frerin hears are his own heavy breaths. Then Thorin’s lips move, and the next word is spoken so low that it may also have been a gust of wind. “Thirteen?”

“Do you honestly think I would let you go without me?” Frerin steps closer, locking Thorin’s eyes with his own. “You are my brother, Thorin. I won’t pretend that the odds aren’t against us, because they are. Overwhelmingly so. But you know what? It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter how preposterous to reason this whole thing is, how much I wish that you would stay home. None of it matters. Because if you _really_ have to go on this journey, then I’m sure as death coming with you.”

Thorin swallows, and Frerin still sees it, it’s still so painfully visible, even under Thorin’s now subdued demeanour, this unfamiliar glint in his brother’s eyes. He hasn’t experienced Thorin this vibrant, this _alive_ in a very long time. Tonight, he almost looks close to the person he had been before Smaug’s attack on Erebor, before Azanulbizar. During all of these years the fire within him had gradually subsided until it was nothing more than a dying ember — extinguished by the crushing weight of duty and honour alike, successfully destroying every crumb of idealistic dreams Thorin had ever possessed. But now it’s as if a spark has been ignited, growing into a wildfire, spreading so fast that it’s devouring his entire being and focussing every ounce of his remaining strength into this one single task.

Frerin longs to say that he’s glad to see Thorin like this again; after all, it’s more than he’s always wished for. But the words lie on his tongue like dry coal, remaining there, unspoken, until he finally swallows them down again. A bitter aftertaste lingers in his throat.

“You are serious about this?” Thorin asks after a long moment.

Frerin doesn’t even blink before he answers. “Entirely serious.”

“You agree on undertaking a journey halfway across Middle Earth for a quest you do not believe will succeed? To reclaim a mountain you refuse to call home?”

Frerin scoffs. “Well, that sums it up nicely.”

Crinkles appear on Thorin’s brow. Every movement in his face speaks of disbelief, and his voice is stained with doubt when he asks, “Why would you do that?”

Frerin meets his brother’s puzzled stare with an unwavering and what he hopes to be an optimistic smile. “Well, I am a son of Durin, am I not? I’ve heard those are supposed to be particularly prone to such reckless folly as this.”

Thorin’s eyes are still fixed on him, wary, but his lips finally curve. He steps closer, untangling his arms from his chest to press a hand on Frerin’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

Frerin nods, and the knot in his stomach partially unclenches. He shifts his weight from one foot to another, throwing a glance to the Hobbit’s living room. “Do you really think Gandalf succeeds in convincing him to come with us?”

“If he doesn’t, we will leave without him,” Thorin says simply. “Nori is a good thief, he will manage.”

“I wonder what he sees in him,” Frerin muses quietly. “Gandalf, I mean. The halfling’s got character, I grant him that, but he seems so... respectable. Soft. I bet the only thing he has ever killed is the weed in his garden. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but why choose him for a mission as dangerous as this one? There has got to be a reason why the Wizard believes him to be the right choice for the quest. What did he tell you about him?”

“He said he has known him since he was a fauntling. Described him as adventurous and curious, perhaps even close to daring.”

“ _Daring_?” Frerin raises his eyebrows and laughs. “Are you sure we’re at the right house?”

Thorin gives a soft chuckle. “Perhaps he is simply not the same Hobbit he once was. He was no older than a child back then. Perhaps he has changed over the years.”

“Aye, perhaps,” Frerin agrees. “People seldom don’t.”

Thorin nods absently, and in that moment Balin appears at their side, his face twisted into a frown. “It appears we have lost our burglar.”

Frerin and Thorin turn their heads in unison to see the halfling strolling past them. There is no contract in his hand, nor does he take particular note of their presence. Balin is right. Bilbo Baggins is not coming with them.

Well, what a surprising turn of events, Frerin thinks wryly.

“Told you so,” he mutters under his breath.

“Shut up,” Thorin instantly replies, more out of habit than anything else.

Balin presses a warm hand on Frerin’s shoulder and forms a fond smile. “I am glad you are here, laddie.”

Frerin returns the smile, his eyes tentatively flickering back to Thorin, whose attention is still fixed on the Hobbit. His eyes follow the halfling’s every step, and he keeps them lingering on the slender figure until Bilbo has walked out of sight and he has disappeared into what are probably his sleeping chambers.

“So am I, Balin,” Frerin says. “So am I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought about posting this so often during the past year and always chickened out - but I now realized that if I don't post it now, I probably never will. So here it is. The full thing will probably be around 80k, of which I have about 30 already written.


	2. Chapter 2

_**“T**_ he sky looks uncommonly dark,” Frerin comments, and Thorin’s head immediately perks up to inspect the dark clouds looming above them. “I suppose it’s going to rain soon. Not really in the mood to get drenched on the first night on the road.”

Behind him, a collective groan emanates from the company, and Frerin can clearly hear Dori asking Ori whether he’s remembered to pack his rain coat, mothering him, as usual.

“Aren’t we going to stay at an inn?” the Hobbit inquires, leading his pony next to Frerin’s.

“He’s not being serious, is he?” Dwalin mutters.

“This is a secret mission, not a holiday trip, Mister Baggins,” Thorin declares, his voice loud and laced with plain annoyance. “We cannot risk anyone finding out about this quest. Staying at inns or other public lodgings is out of the question.”

The halfling looks distraught at the mere thought of not being able to sleep in a soft bed again for an indefinite amount of time, but he keeps his mouth shut, reduced to staring at the reins of his pony with wide eyes.

First that laughable business with the handkerchief, and now this? Honestly, what did the Hobbit expect when he signed the contract and stormed out of his home to run after them?

It’s a clear case, really. Or it should be.

Frerin knows that Thorin is right in refusing to stay at public lodgings, and yes, pampering their master thief certainly will certainly do more harm than good. The road will only get worse, and it’s best if Bilbo accepts that as soon as possible. But...

But at the same time, he can’t help but notice how the frown still hasn’t left the halfling’s face. How one of Bilbo’s hands is fiddling with Bofur’s piece of tunic again, the other holding the reins of his pony in such an utterly wrong way that it’s almost as sad as it is comical to watch. The Hobbit blows his nose, louder than one would expect of someone of his size, and his features twist into an expression of disgust before he puts the cloth back into his pocket again and throws a glance over his shoulder, taking a few long seconds to look back. When he slowly turns ahead again, the disgust has transformed into longing, painting Bilbo so much younger than he actually is.

Frerin recognises the look on Bilbo’s face immediately. He’s seen it every time he’s caught his reflection in a mirror ever since he’s abruptly packed his bags that night and left everything behind in Ered Luin.

The Hobbit could still turn around. No one would blame him. Thorin would certainly welcome it. But Bilbo doesn’t go. He’s still sitting on his pony, gripping the reins in the most impossible fashion possible, dead set on joining them on this preposterous journey to a kingdom he’s got no palpable connection with whatsoever. Even if he still can’t imagine a Hobbit without any experience in battle (or with dragons) burgling the Arkenstone right from under Smaug’s nose, Frerin is truly beginning to like Bilbo Baggins. He’s a tenacious little bugger, one has to grant him that.

 _And already far more supportive of Thorin and this quest than you’ve ever been_ , whispers a quiet voice in the back of his mind.

Frerin shakes his head, pushing the thought away, and tries to convince himself that what he is about to do is not about _that_.

He turns to Thorin, draws a deep breath and opens his mouth, but before he has even managed to utter a single syllable, his brother is already interrupting him.

“I know that look,” Thorin remarks, eyes already narrowing with apprehension. “Whatever you’re up to, the answer is no.”

“Look, I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh no.”

“And we haven’t even left the borders of the shire, Thorin,” Frerin points out. “Surely we could make an exception for one night—”

“No. No exceptions.”

“But—”

“No.”

Frerin rides up next to Thorin, keeping his voice quiet and out of the halfling’s ear shot. He won’t give up this easily. “There’s nothing here that could possibly provide any shelter. We’re going to be completely soaked by the rain. Look at him, do you really think he’s going to hold on for much longer if he’s wet and cold after the very first night of travelling with us?”

Thorin stubbornly keeps his eyes straight ahead. “If he already yields after a bit of rain on his fancy clothes, then I am not entirely sure I would mind if he turned around again. Let him go back to his soft bed and his warm hearth, it’s where he belongs. At least he won’t burden us any longer.”

“You don’t have to make this harder for him than it already is.”

Thorin turns his head and looks back at him, eyebrows raised. “I thought you agreed that he’s not the right Hobbit for his task? Why the sudden change of heart?”

“I also said that he would never actually sign the contract and come with us, and look where we are now.”

“Nobody is forcing him to be here, you know.”

“But he _is_ here. Can you not at least give him credit for that?”

Thorin furrows his brow, studying Frerin closely. “Are we still—”

“It’s all right,” Bilbo suddenly speaks up, cutting him off. “A bit of rain is not going to kill me. Like I said, I’ve done my fair share of walking holidays. It’s not like I never stepped out of my door before you lot turned up.”

Thorin merely huffs, not sparing the Hobbit a single glance. Frerin sees a flash of disappointment flare up in Bilbo’s eyes, but then it is gone again as quickly as it appeared. He forms a polite smile and gives Frerin a nod, steering his pony further ahead, past Thorin and back to Gandalf’s side.

Frerin scoffs, shaking his head. “I can’t believe you sometimes. It’s one night, Thorin. One night. There’s not even a point to doing otherwise. Everyone in the Shire already knows we’re here. A hoard of Dwarves and a Wizard are not exactly the most inconspicuous kinds of people around here, you know. What wrong can another night spent with warm food and a soft mattress possibly do?”

Thorin gives a sigh, the stern facade already crumbling. “You are not going to let this one go, are you?”

“Nope.”

His brothers stares at him for a long, quiet moment, and when the tension in his shoulders goes slack, Frerin knows he’s won. “All right. But only for one night. One night, Frerin. We cannot allow for such petty comforts on the road.”

Frerin doesn’t even bother to hide his smile. “I understand.”

 

They choose an Inn just before the edge of the Shire, a small, cosy cabin next to the Brandywine River. The owner of the Inn eyes the curiously, but does not make any remarks on their presence. Perhaps he’s used to seeing strange folk (as the Hobbits seem call anyone who isn’t a Hobbit) this close to the Old Forest, Frerin doesn’t know.

The common room is utterly deserted, and he surmises that the Hobbits actually staying in this Inn had caught sight of them and fled the room instantly. _Good_ , Frerin thinks, _at least now we don’t have to deal with nosy glances and unwanted questions_. He didn’t think it was possible, but Hobbits could be as bad as Elves in that regard.

Frerin clenches the tankard of ale tighter and closes his eyes, thankful for the warmth provided by the fire and for the cosiness of the armchair he is seated on. Outside, the rain is falling mercilessly. Through the small window next to the fireplace he can see only the darkness of the starless night, the gloominess highlighted by the distance rumble of thunder and the short flashes of lightning here and there. Now that they’re here, Frerin’s utterly glad that he’s convinced Thorin to agree to this, not only for the Hobbit’s sake, but for all of them.

Gandalf and some of the older Dwarves have already gone up to their rooms, and the younger members of the company are huddled on the benches near the bar. At Frerin’s side, Thorin sits on an armchair of his own. He’s hunched over the map again, studying it closely, tracing the path with his finger. Frerin can hear him mumbling something intelligible under his breath, before Thorin leans back again and rubs his fingers against his closed eyes. He folds the map and puts it back into his coat pocket. It won’t take too long until he pulls it back out again. He’s done so several times this evening alone, overworking himself just as he always does, putting more weight on his shoulders than anyone should have to bear.

Frerin sets his tankard down on the table before him. He crosses his arms over the cushioned armrest of his chair and rests his chin on them, watching Thorin closely. “Everything all right?”

Thorin sinks back into his chair. “I have been trying to find a different route.”

“A different route?” Frerin echoes. “Why, what’s wrong with the one we’re taking now?”

“It leads through Mirkwood.”

“Oh.”

Thorin gives a humourless laugh. “Yes, I do share the sentiment.”

Paying Thranduil a visit is not something Frerin particularly fancies. Or, in other words: he’d rather have a dinner party with Smaug. At least that would be over quickly. “Are there any alternatives?”

“Not that I can see,” Thorin admits. “If we were to go round it, it would take about two hundred extra miles north. Twice that distance south.”

“Well, maybe we don’t cross paths with him. It’s a big forest.” Though, if the size of his kingdom even barely resembles the size of his ego, hopes like these seem like a rather long shot.

Thorin rubs his eye again, apparently just as convinced as Frerin is. “I do hope you’re right.”

“You know, you are allowed to rest once in a while. It’s been a long day, and there are beds upstairs. Actual beds. With pillows.”

“I know.” Before Frerin realises what his brother is doing, Thorin has already reached into his coat pocket, taking out the map again.

Frerin lifts his head, putting on the sternest expression he can muster. “Thorin.”

To his disappointment, Thorin doesn’t even bat an eye. “Perhaps I missed something. There needs to be some kind of clue on here, anything that helps us open the hidden door once we arrive.”

“Even Gandalf didn’t find anything on this bloody map!”

Thorin whirls his head around, leaning forward.“Would you rather seek out the help of the Elves?”

“You know I wouldn’t,” Frerin returns grimly. “But I don’t think this problem is going to be solved tonight either. And certainly not by staring holes into the damn thing. So come on, get some sleep.”

Thorin opens his mouth, and Frerin cocks his head to the side, prepared to argue, when someone sneezes, so loudly and with so much force that Frerin almost leaps into the air in shock.

“ _Mahal_.”

“Sorry,” comes the sniffling answer from across the room.

Frerin’s eyes wander to search for the source of the voice, until he discovers the Hobbit sitting on a plain wooden chair — the seat closest to the fireplace, a few paces from them. He sniffs again, curling his lips around the pipe in his hand.

With a sigh, Frerin reaches for his ale and vaults to his feet.

“Where are you going?” Thorin asks, bewildered.

Frerin keeps his voice quiet, indicating to Bilbo’s small figure with a jerk of his head. “Look at him, he’s miserable.”

“So?” Thorin sags back into his armchair again. “We stayed at the Inn. He is dry. Warm. Comfortable. He has got what he wanted.”

“Still, you don’t have to be such an ass.” Frerin gives him a sharp look, glad to see Thorin actually be fazed at the reproval. His brother presses his lips together and raises the map, hiding his face behind it.

Frerin shakes his head again, and, with large steps, makes his way over to where the Hobbit is still smoking his pipe.

When Frerin leans against the wall, Bilbo looks up at him, obviously confused.

“Still the horse hair?” Frerin guesses.

A nod. “It’s all over my clothes. And it’s not as if I can simply _change_ them, because I only had the mind to pack one single waistcoat.”

Frerin’s mouth twitches at just how _distressed_ the Hobbit seems to be over the matter. He’s never understood the amount of concern people put into physical things. Especially not clothes. They have a function, but nothing beyond that. They’re only pieces of cloth sown together, and when they get dirty, you wash them; when they get torn, you throw them away and get some new ones, it’s that easy. Not exactly the end of the world.

“Well, at least you’re dry, eh?” Frerin tries at last.

“Mhm,” Bilbo returns vaguely as he guides the pipe back to his mouth, puffing until he forms a smoke ring.

And not a bad one too, Frerin observes, rather impressed.

“You’re homesick.” It’s not a question.

Bilbo still looks as if he doesn’t want to admit it, as if he’s unwilling to show him this weakness. But there’s no use in denying it, it’s written all over the halfling’s face, in every wrinkle on his brow, in the lack of spark in his eyes. Bilbo gives another nod and turns his head to look into the crackling flames of the fireside.

“Me too,” Frerin says quietly, more to himself than to the Hobbit. “The first day is always the hardest. It gets easier over time.”

Bilbo doesn’t turn to look at him. “Yes, but you’re travelling _towards_ your home, not running away from it.”

Frerin squints at the Hobbit’s words, genuinely confused for a second. “Oh, no, I wasn’t talking about Erebor. I meant Ered Luin.”

Now Bilbo spins his head around to look at him, eyebrows raised with interest. “Ered Luin?”

“The Blue Mountains,” Frerin explains, taking a sip of ale from his tankard. “They are all still there. My sister, my friends.” He pauses, forming a small smile. “My dog. It’s strange to think that it’ll be months before I see them again.”

 _If I ever see them again_ , he adds internally. The mere thought causes the ale to turn bitter in his mouth.

Bilbo places his pipe on his lap, the fingers still curled around the handle, but the weed momentarily forgotten. “You and Thorin have a sister?”

“Dis,” Frerin supplies. “She’s the youngest. Though, probably also the wisest of us.”

“Why isn’t she here with you?”

“Like I said, she’s smart.” That manages to draw out the hint of a real smile on the Hobbit’s lips, and Frerin can’t help but smile back. “Nah, she’s taking care of the people in the Blue Mountains. She’s their leader in Thorin’s stead.”

The corners of Bilbo’s mouth are still curved when he asks, “Why are you doing this?”

“What do you mean?”

Bilbo gestures to where Thorin is still sitting hunched over the map. Frerin’s eyes follow the movement, and he sees his brother twirling large strands of his hair around his fingers, pulling so hard that Frerin can almost feel the pain it must cause by merely looking at him. If this continues for much longer, he’s going to take that damned map away and hide it somewhere Thorin cannot find it or wouldn’t dare to look for it. Maybe stash it somewhere between the cooking utensils, there’s no way he’s going to look for it there. It’s honestly getting ridiculous, he needs to rest. Thorin more than anyone.

“Speaking up for me in front of Thorin,” Bilbo clarifies, and Frerin tears his eyes away from his brother to look back at the Hobbit. “Talking to me when no one else does.”

Frerin drops his gaze and stares down in the depths of his ale. “I don’t know. Maybe because you remind me of myself. In some strange, twisted way.”

He can feel Bilbo staring at him, so he quickly looks up again, hoping that every sign of seriousness has dissipated from his face when he meets the Hobbit’s puzzled stare. The forced smirk comes almost naturally now. Acting becomes as easy as breathing over time, and it takes no effort at all to repair the cracks in his mask. “And I do it to annoy Thorin,” he adds quickly. “He gets irritated very easily, which makes teasing him all the more fun. I love it.”

“I never would have guessed,” comes Bilbo’s wry reply. His head is tilted, eyes alive with real interest as he keeps studying Frerin. Then there’s a loud clatter, stopping Bilbo from whatever question he was just about to conjure up next. The loud noise is followed by enthusiastic yells and cheers, and when Frerin looks over to the table he sees that Dwalin is clapping Ori on the back, roaring, while Dori is wearing his most mortified expression, eyes flickering back and forth between his little brother and the broken tankard Ori has just smashed on the ground.

“ _Shelekika hakhd ra targ_!” Bifur adds, holding his own tankard up in the air.

“True that,” Nori chimes in, playfully shoving Dori with his shoulder. “Oh, cheer up, brother, he’s having fun! It’s not a party if nothing gets broken.”

“It’s not proper,” Dori mumbles, but the others have already stopped listening to his protests and proceed to throw and catch their tankards over the the table, turning it into a game. Ale sprinkles all over the furniture and the floor, and after a few minutes there’s not a Dwarf left who isn’t wet and dripping with beer. It doesn’t take long until food is being thrown around, and though they manage to not smash another mug again, the mess they have turned the small and previously so tidy common room into is still plain as day.

Frerin laughs, mentally making a note to leave a generous tip for the inn owner tomorrow.

“Aren’t you going to join us?” Bofur asks, putting on the hat he had just wrung out back on his head again. “Better be quick, or Bombur will have eaten all that’s left of dinner.”

“Sure,” Frerin says and gets up. He walks a few steps, before he turns around, expectantly raising his eyebrows at Bilbo’s still seated figure. “Are you coming?”

“Who, me?”

“No, I was actually talking to that other sulky Hobbit beside you,” Frerin replies sarcastically, and is rewarded by Bilbo giving him a look that could challenge even one of Dwalin’s scowls. “Yes, you. Come on. Drink some ale, loosen up a little. It’ll keep your mind of things.”

Bilbo warily eyes the table as if it’s a battlefield, but he gets on his feet, places his pipe on his seat and swallows.

“Here, catch!” Bofur yells, throwing a mug of ale at Bilbo.

With faster reflexes than Frerin would have expected of him, the halfling catches the tankard with both hands. A little wariness still remains on his features, but he gives Bofur an attempt at a smile and raises the cup triumphantly into the air, receiving deafening cheer from the Dwarves in return.

Frerin throws one last look to where Thorin is still sitting in his armchair, seemingly oblivious to everything and everyone around him, and joins Bilbo and the others at the dinner table.

##

 ** _I_** t’s strange how time always seems to fly by so much faster when you’re having fun. _Fun_. Bilbo repeats the word in his head, still unsure or perhaps just _unwilling_ to admit it.

It’s back again, that itch he thought he’d buried long ago, revived by the talk of dragons and lost kingdoms. Everything he’s been taught, everything he’s made himself become tries to convince him that it’s wrong to give in, that he shouldn’t even lay a finger on the itch. Danger, adventure, doing something completely unexpected... It goes against every fibre of his being. It’s simply not what Hobbits do, especially not a Hobbit who prides himself of being a Baggins of Bag End, his father’s son.

But at the same time, he can’t help but notice how awake he feels since he’s run out of his door, the contract fluttering behind him, the disapproving eyes of his neighbours pinned on his back. How light. As if someone has splashed colour into a world he didn’t know was black and white.

The Dwarves around him drink and laugh and yell, and it’s all terribly loud and in lack of any type of manners, but he finds himself not minding it any longer. Now, he’s in the middle all of it, huddled in between their midst, his hands curled around his third cup of ale, his eyes hanging onto every word that leaves Balin’s lips.

“We were leaderless. Defeat and death were upon us,” the Dwarf goes on, his voice grave. “That is when I saw him.”

He glances over to Thorin’s place at the fire, and the sombre smile forming on Balin’s face makes his wrinkles appear so much more prominent, turning his age and and the weight of all the sorrows that come with it visible for all the world to see.

Thorin’s back is turned to the company, but even from his place at the table Bilbo can still make out the stiffness in Thorin’s shoulder in the low light. He hasn’t said a word, hasn’t interrupted Balin in his re-telling of the battle of Moria, not even once. He just keeps staring ahead, his fingers clenched tightly around the arm rests of his chair.

“A young Dwarf prince, facing down the pale Orc,” Balin continues. “He stood alone against this terrible foe. His armour rent, wielding nothing but an oaken branch as a shield.”

And Bilbo can see it, the images forming so clearly and vividly in his head, as if he’d been there with them on that battlefield that day. He’s almost able to hear the battle cries, the metal clashing against wood, the hopelessness of it all. Taste the salty tears and sweat on his tongue, while the sunlight is so searingly hot that it burns his skin. The heavy scent of blood surrounds him, smothers him.

“And I thought to myself then — there is one who I could follow. There is one, I could call king.”

Thorin finally turns his head, slowly, taking in the image of the awestruck group of Dwarves who all have their eyes fixed upon him. He gives a nod, the expression on his face reserved and carefully neutral.

Bilbo tears his eyes away from Thorin and closes his mouth, which he didn’t notice standing agape. “And the pale Orc?” he asks, letting go off his tankard to sling his arms around his elbows. Despite the warmth of the fire, the air in the room has gained a chilly quality, and when Bilbo rubs his right hand over his upper arm he notices the goosebumps on his skin. “What happened to him?”

“He slunk back into the hole whence he came,” Thorin grinds out between greeted teeth, every syllable soaked with plain disgust. “That filth died of his wounds long ago.”

Thorin throws another glance at the table, meeting Bilbo’s gaze. Just for one short little second the mask on the Dwarf’s face crumbles; his eyes are wide, the pain in them so utterly visible and open in this one fleeting moment that Bilbo’s breath hitches.

Thorin looks down, and Bilbo sees how his grip on the arm rests hardens. The mask returns, and a frown falls over Thorin’s features like a curtain, before he turns his back on them again, concealing his face.

Beside him, Frerin is uncharacteristically quiet. Without a word, the Dwarf stands up from his seat at the table and walks over to Thorin, rests a hand on the back of the armchair and leans over his brother to whisper something in his ear. Bilbo can’t see the expression on Thorin’s face, but he sees him nod, before he reaches up to clasp Frerin’s shoulder. Frerin says something Bilbo cannot catch, and then Thorin’s body shakes in a soft chuckle, which Frerin returns with a smile. It’s different from his other smiles. Warmer. As if he’s not even aware of doing it. The two of them exchange a few more words, and with each the tension in Thorin’s back slackens, until he drops his hand on Frerin’s shoulder, giving him another nod.

Bilbo averts his eyes from the brothers and shifts his attention back to the conversation around him. Fili and Kili are begging Balin for more battle stories, urging him to tell them more of his days as a dauntless warrior. Dwalin gives a theatrical sigh, while Balin’s pretending he’s too tired to think of any more tales. Before they know it, he’s already in the middle of the recount of another battle, a battle long before Smaug’s attack on the Lonely Mountain. Fili, Kili, and Ori immediately shuffle closer, eager to hear more.

A story follows another story, and as the night grows older and the arrival of morning grows closer, the Dwarves leave the table one by one to go upstairs and retire to their lodgings. The inn’s common room gets gradually emptier, until it’s so deserted and dark that the low flickering of the candles and the soft dripping of the rain outside is almost eerie. The flames of the fireplace are now a mere dying ember, making room for the crisp spring air.

Bofur, Frerin, and Balin are the last to leave the room, and Bilbo is keen on doing the same. He’s already mentally picturing the pleasant welcoming warmth of his bed sheets upstairs, when he realises that he’s forgotten his pipe back on the chair he’s sat on earlier.

He stumbles across the room to get it, eyes half closed with fatigue, his legs moving on their own accord while his mind remains occupied with fantasising about sinking into a soft and clean pillow. He blindly waves about, patting down the chair until his fingers finally find the smooth wood of his pipe.

Then a flash of lightning illuminates the room for the fraction of a second, just as Bilbo turns around, more than ready to retire to bed and burrow himself deep under the covers. Every ounce of tiredness leaves his body as he catches sight of a still figure sitting in the armchair right in front of him, momentarily exposed by the shrill light. Bilbo stumbles backward against the wall with fright, one hand pressed onto his chest.

A curse leaves his lips when he realizes that the broad silhouette before him belongs to Thorin, and not some ill-willing stranger. As much as Balin’s tales are exciting and interesting to witness, they do leave behind a strange taste of wariness that’s hard to shake off again, making one feel as if an evil Orc could lurk behind every corner, ready to strike and kill. No matter how ridiculous that sounds while they’re still not even beyond the borders of the Shire.

Thorin doesn’t particularly acknowledge his presence, only stares at him, entirely too unfazed by the jolt he’s caused. What’s he even doing here, sitting all by himself in this darkness?

“You scared me there for a moment,” Bilbo says, making a frail attempt at trying to cover up his breathlessness. He takes a moment to regulate his breathing and snuffs, speaking the next words through his nose. “I didn’t know you were still here. I thought you’d gone upstairs by now.”

Thorin still doesn’t open his mouth. He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly, as if he’s considering Bilbo.

Suddenly feeling incredibly exposed, Bilbo clears his throat and gives Thorin a curt, awkward nod, before he starts rushing past the Dwarf and up to his room.

“Wait.”

Bilbo stops, coming to a halt right next to Thorin’s chair. “Yes?”

Thorin looks up at him, hesitating. If Bilbo didn’t know better, he’d say Thorin looked uncertain on what to say next. As if he’s... nervous.

Before Bilbo has time to dwell on the thought, Thorin gets up from his seat, fiddling with his coat pocket. When he’s standing upright, Thorin is so tall that he’s looking down at Bilbo again, towering above him, and so close that Bilbo is able to smell the peculiar scent of Dwarven pipe weed sticking to the fur on his clothes. Bilbo’s heart starts beating faster, but he doesn’t back away.

Thorin wordlessly extends his hand towards him, his fingers curled around what seems to be a simple white cloth.

“What’s that?” Bilbo asks as he takes it from Thorin’s grip, even though he now realises exactly what it is.

“It’s a handkerchief,” Thorin says gruffly. “Considering the amount of complaining we had to endure on the way I supposed you know how one looks like.”

“Yes, I know what it is,” Bilbo retorts, “I’m merely wondering why you would offer me yours.”

Thorin rubs his eyes, looking like he’d rather be somewhere else. “Just take it. I have no use for it.”

“Well, thank you,” Bilbo says. He rubs the soft material between his fingers, the pad of his thumb stroking over the delicate embroidery. It’s the outline of an oak tree, Bilbo realises as he looks down to inspect it. The image comes back to him in that moment, of Thorin, cloaked in blazing sunlight, standing on the blood-covered battleground of Moria, towering over the corpses, the oaken branch in his hand.

He feels Thorin’s eyes on him, still standing so utterly close.

“I’m sorry.” The words that leave his mouth are nothing more than a whisper, but he knows Thorin’s heard them nevertheless.

“What for?” Thorin asks, just as as quietly.

“About your grandfather. And your father,” Bilbo clarifies. “I cannot imagine what it must have been like losing them on the very same day.”

Thorin blinks at him. For a short moment the grief-stricken look from earlier shines through, but it subsides as quickly as it appeared. “It was a long time ago.”

Bilbo nods, while his thumb’s keeps playing with the handkerchief in hand. Thorin’s as still as rock before him, his eyes never leaving Bilbo’s own. For the first time since they’ve met, there’s no sign of underlying annoyance in Thorin’s gaze.

He’s all up there in Bilbo’s personal space, and by all means, it should be making him uncomfortable beyond measure, but it doesn’t.

Finally, Bilbo inclines his head once more and slips the cloth into his waistcoat pocket. “Well, I’ll go upstairs now. It’s— it’s been a rather long day. Goodnight.”

Thorin blinks again and looks away, stepping to the side to make space to let Bilbo through. “Goodnight.”

His earlier tiredness returns, and Bilbo is barely able to suppress a yawn as he goes up the stairs and crosses the short distance to the room he shares with Bombur, Bofur, and Bifur. Once he’s buried deep beneath the warm covers, the the soft thuds of footsteps coming up the stairs are the last thing he hears before darkness overcomes him and carries him into weary dreams.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shelekika hakhd ra targ = It wets tooth and beard (Said about food which is pleasantly appetising)


	3. Chapter 3

_**T**_ he weeks go by in a blur. They travel by day and make rest in the sheltered darkness of the night. Most of the journey has elapsed peacefully, except for a minor quarrel here and there. But today Gandalf crossed the line, and while Thorin’s reaction may have been slightly exaggerated and even somewhat childish, Frerin finds himself agreeing with his brother on this matter. They will _not_ venture into Rivendell, and (he almost laughs at the thought of it) _ask_ the Elves for advice on matters that do not concern them. This is a Dwarven affair, it is _their_ kingdom. Frerin shakes his head at the outright insolence the Wizard’s meddling has turned into. Bad enough that he’s been the one to plant this foolish idea of reclaiming Erebor into Thorin’s head, but _Elves_?

Frerin keeps walking through the forest, the twigs snapping into two under his weight and temper; the crisp evening air a welcome chance to the hot summer temperatures that last throughout the day. It’s a starless night, cloudy and dark. Frerin’s left the camp, tired of watching his brother moping around, and set off to find his nephews, who’d undeniably be better company for the evening.

As he catches sight of Fili’s blond hair he comes to a stop. “Shouldn’t you be looking after the ponies?”

Kili jumps at the sudden sound and then swears, while Fili releases a triumphant laugh. “Ha!”

He shifts his attention from the small object dangling from his hand to Frerin, shaking his head, the mirth still visible on his face. “Nah, they’re fine.”

“They are ponies, Uncle,” Kili adds, as if that could somehow suffice as a proper explanation, “and we tied them to the trees. What could possibly go wrong?”

Frerin decides he’d rather not answer that. His eyes flicker to what he now realises to be chestnuts threaded onto a piece of string, then back at his nephews. “And what are you two doing exactly?”

“We are playing conkers,” Fili explains, flinging the one in his hand against Kili’s.

“What in Durin’s name is that supposed to be?”

“It’s a game,” Kili supplies. “Mister Boggins bragged about it earlier. We supposed it couldn’t be that hard, and it’s actually sort of fun.”

“Uh-huh,” Fili agrees.

Remaining doubtful, Frerin decides to continue to watch them play a little longer. Eventually, Fili’s chestnut breaks after he fails to move it out of the way in time to dodge Kili’s attack, and a long crack appears at the side. Kili’s face lights up, and Fili ruffles his little brother’s hair, congratulating him on his victory.

The corners of Frerin’s mouth twitch, and his mood brightens already. _This_ , this is what he loves most about his nephews — that they’re able to find joy in the most mundane things, even in something as trivial as a children’s game. He’d give anything to preserve this side of them. To shield them from the inescapable horrors the world has in store for every being on this earth. For them to remain strangers to suffering and war, to stay innocent just a little while longer.

He’s about to leave, when Fili hurries to his side, making Frerin stop short. “Frerin?”

It’s the sudden seriousness in Fili’s eyes that causes him to hesitate. “Yes?”

“There’s something I wanted to ask you.” Fili visibly swallows, but he keeps his eyes locked on Frerin. “About Father.”

Frerin’s smile freezes on his face, and he casts a brief glance back to where Kili is busy preparing another set of conkers. He’s biting his bottom lip, his messy hair falling down on his face, the eyes fully fixed on chestnut and pieces of string in his hands, thankfully too preoccupied to listen to their conversation.

Fili follows Frerin’s gaze. When he turns again, the look in his eyes has grown softer, but he still seems more determined than ever. “Do you think he would have wanted this?”

“Wanted what?” Frerin asks, his voice sounding unnaturally high in his own ears. “You playing some Hobbit game?”

Fili forms the ghost of a smile, and then makes a vague gesture with his hand. “No, this. Reclaiming Erebor. Kili and me joining the quest to do so. All of it. Do you think he would have approved? Be honest.”

Frerin scrunches up his nose, tries to ignore the way his throat constricts. He should have known Fili would ask this question sooner or later. He’s always been dead set on doing what his father would want him to do, determined to make him proud.

Frerin’s first instinct is to say, ‘No, never, Tóki would never have participated in such folly.’

But then he stops and thinks. Thinks about that one day when Tóki had woken him up, sometime very early in the morning, _too_ early — it hadn’t even been dawn yet, that much Frerin can remember. “ _We’re going to sea_ ,” he had said. Just like that, without any further explanation. It had taken them over three days of travelling just to get there. In the end Tóki had picked up seashell. He had held it out in his palm, a smile on his face, the blustering sea wind tousling his fair hair. That image still remains in his mind, so strangely vivid, like a painting he can conjure up whenever he wishes, whenever he panics, thinks he’s forgotten how his smile looked like, the sound of his laugh—

“ _Please don’t tell me we rode all this way just so you have a seashell to give to Dis._ ” Frerin had said to him. His sister loved the sea, she still does, and her birthday had been coming up. He can’t remember which one. Back then, Dis never found the time to travel, too caught up in politics, too engrossed with looking after their people. Build them a new home. Share the weight on Thorin’s shoulders, when Frerin could not. Diplomacy, ruling, economics — he’s never been in an expert in those matters.

And so Frerin had been the one to accompany his friend to the faraway sea. For nothing but a bloody seashell, just so Tóki could take the sea home with him to Dis. He still remembers shaking his head, swamped with disbelief and astonishment in equal measure, when Tóki had answered him in that sober tone of his, “ _It’s the only place to find them, Frerin_.”

He was like that. Practical. Easy going. And completely and utterly audacious, his big head always lingering somewhere in the clouds.

Fili is still looking at him, and Frerin meets his expectant blue eyes with a smile. “I think he would have wanted you to be doing whatever makes you happy. Even if that should include travelling half the world and battle a dragon.”

Fili nods, attempting a smile of his own. He fixes his eyes onto the ground, his fingers absently playing with the broken chestnut that’s still in his grip. Frerin reaches out, his hand seeking the shoulder of his eldest nephew, to touch, to soothe, even though he knows that it won’t be enough. It will never be enough — he isn’t their father, no substitute for what they have lost, not matter how much he and Thorin try to be.

A twig snaps, leaves rustle, and Frerin instantly turns around, his heart skipping a beat. Expecting a surprise attack by Mahal knows what, he instinctively reaches for his bow, the hand already curled around one of the arrows in his quiver.

“It’s only me, don’t shoot,” Bilbo calls out.

Frerin releases the grip on his weapon and lets his hands drop to his sides, releasing a relieved breath. “I thought you were an Orc.”

“No, just bringing you some food.”

Fili and Kili happily accept the bowls Bilbo hands to them, but Frerin raises his hand, waving him off. “No, I’m not hungry actually, but thank you.”

“But—” Bilbo tries. He looks confused, perhaps even a bit appalled at the refusal. No wonder, Frerin thinks, Hobbits do eat seven meals a day. However impractical _that_ habit is.

“Keep them some company, will you? I’m going to hit the hay early today.” Bilbo opens his mouth again and raises his finger at him, the lips already curled to form ‘no’, but Frerin has already turned on his heel, paying no mind to the Hobbit’s protests.

When he returns to the camp, he sees nothing much has changed while he’s been gone. Thorin’s still sulking, Bombur’s still eating, and Gandalf’s still gone.

Frerin makes his way to his sleeping roll, stifling a yawn. His eyes involuntarily dart to the bow beside his coat, and he reaches out, his fingers tracing the elegant curve of the weapon. Some Dwarves think it to be a foolish weapon, only fit for cowards, or even worse, Elves. Frerin had thought so too, once upon a time, at least until he had seen Tóki shoot. Arrow after arrow, every single one of them hitting its mark; the gracefulness, the speed, the accuracy, all of it. Tóki’s easy laugh when they had gone hunting together, the way he had always downplayed his skill, his playful disappointment when Fili had turned out to be so much more fond on knives and daggers than archery.

It’s the laugh he misses the most.

Frerin doesn’t realise he’s shaking until his vision blurs, and his grip on the bow’s handle turns painfully tight. He blinks a few time, forcing the dampness in his eyes away, and loosens his hold, gently setting the bow down on the ground. He looks around, making sure no one has seen. Nobody has. Good.

He swallows, giving his pillow a few light punches before he throws his head back and closes his eyes. He bites down on his cheek, tries to think of something else, or even better, nothing at all.

Frerin doesn’t know how long he’s slept, minutes or hours, it could have been either, but he certainly doesn’t feel well rested when he becomes aware of hands gripping his shoulders, shaking him, all of it rather violently.

“Mhhmpf, let me sleep,” Frerin mutters, determined to turn around and keep his eyes closed until whoever’s woken him sods off again.

“Trolls!”

“Huh?” He blinks a few times until Fili’s disconcerted face above him becomes less blurry.

“Trolls, Uncle,” Fili repeats, his voice urgent. “Get up, they’ve got Bilbo!”

Is he still dreaming or did his nephew just say that Bilbo got kidnapped by _Trolls_?

“Kili! Wait up! Kili!” Thorin shouts, and now Frerin’s definitely awake. He jolts upright, grabbing his bow and arrows and mounting them on his back, following the trail of alarmed and panicked yelling.

Mahal, what has the Hobbit got himself into?

##

 _ **H**_ e’s going to die.

Out of all the Dwarves, Thorin is the first to become aware of Bilbo’s dilemma. He instantly lowers his weapon, staring at Bilbo in shock. Kili shoots one quick glance at his frozen uncle, then at Bilbo, and darts forwards, his sword ready in his hand. “Bilbo!”

The firm, painful grip on his limbs only tightens at the sound, and Bilbo is sure now. He’s going to die, somewhere out in the woods in the middle of nowhere, with his best waistcoat covered in snot, ripped apart by three Trolls who cannot even tell the taste of fish and chicken apart. Lobelia will get all of his silverware, and he will go down in Shire history as the Hobbit who left his safe Hole to live just long enough to regret it.

And all because he wanted to steal back some ponies. More like a grocer than a burglar after all.

Kili doesn’t make it more than one metre before Thorin grabs a hold of his nephew, holding him back with a firm hand pressed on his chest. “No!”  
“Lay down your arms, or we’ll rip his off!” one of the Trolls warns. If Bilbo wasn’t just about to be torn limb from limb, he’d probably laugh at the play on words. Not today. Today he’s too scared to form a coherent thought, too scared to even try to wriggle out of the creatures’ grip on his arms and legs.

The company is still frozen on the spot, reduced to staring at the miserable picture of their Hobbit being held up by three enormous Trolls. Nobody’s moving a muscle, too stunned to do anything but watch.

Thorin’s still looking at him, and Bilbo stares back into his piercing blue eyes, his chest moving up and down with frantic, heavy breaths. Everything — his life — depends on Thorin’s next move. The Dwarf has made no promises regarding Bilbo’s safety. He doesn’t owe Bilbo anything, and if he laid down his weapon now, he would put the entire company in danger, almost certainly signing their death sentences. Maybe they’d have time to work on a plan, but the chance is slim. But if he lets Bilbo die, the Dwarves will be able to escape, unharmed, that much is certain.

Bilbo knows it, Thorin knows it. They keep staring at each other, silently communicating. Thorin is visibly weighing his options, contemplating on his next action, while Bilbo is struck with so much fear that it’s a wonder he hasn’t passed out yet. He’s unable to say anything as he waits for their leader to make a decision.

Then Thorin lowers his gaze and, with a defeated expression on his face, drops his sword to the ground. Before Bilbo fully comprehends what Thorin’s just done for him, he hears a soft _swoosh_ on his right. The ironclad grip on his limbs loosens, and he finds himself falling, spiralling downwards until he collides with the hard ground, side first. He thinks he hears something crack, and then there’s a sharp pain shooting through his left hand.

Bilbo groans, indistinctly aware of another swooshing sound. He remains lying on the ground, hearing everything like he’s being held underwater. The shouting around him sounds muffled and far away, though he thinks he can decipher clashes of swords and axes, and yes, that angry yelling was definitely coming from Thorin. Someone was shouting back — Dwalin? Frerin? The ground beneath him shakes as heavy footsteps pass him by, and there’s another incoherent yell just above him, which Bilbo is sure was the sound of a Troll.

It feels like an eternity, but the noise is slowly, but surely dying away, and Bilbo finally regains his balance. He’s still failing to sit up when strong, but not ungentle hands grip his shoulders and hoist him to his feet.

“Are you hurt?” Thorin all but barks at him.

Through Bilbo’s daze the Dwarf’s eyes look uncommonly soft. Almost worried.

“What?” Bilbo manages to say. He blinks several times, lowering his eyes to take a look at his throbbing hand.

Thorin tears his gaze away from Bilbo’s eyes, following their movement. He takes Bilbo’s hand in his own, carefully turning it over to evaluate the damage.

“Can you make a fist?”  
Bilbo tries, clenching his teeth at the sudden pain, but he manages.

Thorin nods and lets go of his hand. “I don’t think it is broken. Probably just sprained. Oin?”

The strange softness in his face gradually subsides and is replaced by something that does not quite look like anger. It’s seems more close to... disappointment. Or discomfort. As if he is bracing himself to do something he hates doing.

Thorin turns on his heel, leaving Bilbo alone with the healer.

“What in Durin’s name were you thinking?” Thorin asks, walking towards his brother. He’s not shouting, but Bilbo’s travelled long enough with these Dwarves to pick on Thorin’s subtle shifts of tone. Thorin’s cross with whatever Frerin’s done, that much is clear.

“What was _I_ thinking? What were _you_ thinking, Thorin, just giving up like that?” Frerin, who _is_ shouting, returns.

Awkward silence falls over the other Dwarves, and everyone just stands there, sharing looks that speak lengths, until Gloin mutters something about there being a cave nearby. One by one they retreat, with only Fili lingering for a few seconds longer, looking back and forth between his uncles, wary, until he reluctantly retreats to give them some space and privacy to sort out their argument. Judging by the way Frerin is glaring at his brother, it’s going to be a long one.

“You could have got the halfling killed,” Thorin says, and anyone else would have yielded upon hearing the authoritative quality his low voice has gained. Frerin, on the other hand, only moves closer, holding his brother’s gaze without even batting an eye. “You could have got all of us killed, Frerin.”

“But I didn’t!”

Thorin sighs. “That is not the point—”

“It was the only way to get out of that dilemma! What do you think would have happened once we laid down our arms? They wouldn’t just have let us go. They’d have killed us. We would have been eaten. By _Trolls_.” Frerin gives a short humourless laugh, indicating how ridiculous the idea sounds in his ears. “Now they are dead, and we are all still alive. Even Bilbo.”

As if to prove his point, Frerin points at him with a finger, and Thorin’s eyes briefly flicker to the side. “He’s hurt.”

“Still trumps being torn to shreds, don’t you think?” Frerin snaps back.

Bilbo quickly looks away, pretending he’s not even listening to what they’re saying, though he’s sure Frerin is shouting loud enough for his old Gaffer in Hobbiton to hear.

Oin motions him to sit down, so Bilbo slumps down on a nearby rock, the Dwarf hovering over him to examine his injured hand. Bilbo’s eyes wander to the right, where the bodies of the Trolls lie on the ground, bloody and pierces with several arrows, obviously dead.

As inconspicuously as he can manage, Bilbo looks back to Thorin and Frerin, who are still arguing. They’ve been arguing ever since the company left the Shire, really, sometimes over the most trivial things. But maybe that’s commonplace for siblings, Bilbo doesn’t really know. He’s never had one.

“We would have thought of something,” Thorin insists, and, ignoring the scoff Frerin gives at that, continues, “One mistake is all it takes. What if you had missed? What if they had seen you aiming before you could have made your shot? What if we hadn’t been able to take down the last one? Have you ever thought about that?”

Frerin’s face has gained a reddish colour and he opens his mouth, steps closer, tries to interrupt Thorin again, but the older Dwarf just keeps going, relentlessly, in such a calm, but imposing voice that it’s hard to remember that Frerin’s only five years younger than his brother. In this moment, he looks no older than a child.

“You can’t just go and charge into every situation without weighing the risks,” Thorin says. “You are the heir to the throne, Frerin. You have responsibilities. And that means that you have to learn how to act like a leader and bear in mind what consequences your reckless actions entail.”

“But I—” Frerin tries once more, but then he stops mid-sentence, the mouth still open, his eyes widening. All colour drains from his cheeks, and he blanches, taking an uncertain step back again. “What?”

Thorin furrows his brow, just as confused as Bilbo is over Frerin’s reaction.

Frerin takes another step back, almost stumbling over his own feet. He turns his back on them, heading in the other direction with heavy steps.

“Frerin!” Thorin calls after him.

“I need some fresh air,” Frerin answers without turning around. “Everything around here reeks of Troll.”

Thorin remains standing on the spot, watching his brother disappear into the dark mass of the trees. He looks tired, as uncertain and vulnerable as Bilbo’s ever seen him before, and he has to fight the urge to reach out and comfort the Dwarf. But he knows it wouldn’t be welcome — and certainly not coming from him — so he says nothing and turns his attention to Oin instead.

“Thorin was right, your hand is not broken,” Oin explains patiently. “But you need to be careful and not overexert it. You will need a sling, but it shouldn’t take too long to heal.”

Bilbo nods, giving the old Dwarf a polite smile. “Thank you.”

“No mind, laddie. It’s what I am here for.”

Bilbo gets up from the rock, trying to keep his face as neutral as he can with the still present pain shooting up his hand.

“And where are _you_ going, Master Baggins?” Thorin asks quietly.

“After him,” Bilbo answers. “He did in fact save me from being torn into two. The least I can do is thank him for it.”

Thorin doesn’t say more, simply keeps staring at Bilbo as if he’s a particularly difficult puzzle he just cannot figure out.

Bilbo clenches his jaw and nods absently, then turns on his heel, not noticing Thorin’s eyes still lingering upon his back, following his movements until he’s swallowed up by the vastness of the trees.

Frerin hasn’t gone far. Bilbo catches sight of the back of his broad figure in a nearby clearing. He’s sitting on the ground, leaning next to a boulder, ripping out pieces of grass and staring at the horizon. When Bilbo gets nearer, he visibly tenses, but otherwise does not acknowledge Bilbo’s presence.

“Look, I blanked out for a couple of minutes, so I am not really sure what happened exactly. But from what I’m gathering, it seems that you some arrows at the Trolls and saved my life. So... thank you for that, I suppose.”

Frerin doesn’t reply. He keeps his gaze straight ahead, ripping out another batch of grass with more force than necessary.

Bilbo sighs and sinks down on the grass next to the Dwarf. His hand’s still throbbing, and he feels the heat spreading in his wrist, announcing the prospect of swelling. Peachy.

Leaning back, Bilbo decides to keep quiet until Frerin opens up and tells him what exactly bothered him so much about Thorin’s lecture. Because, while he’s immensely grateful for still possessing his limbs, Bilbo has do admit that Thorin wasn’t wrong in what he said. Anything could have happened. Being captured by the Trolls would at least had given them more time to figure out a plan to escape.

“It’s so stupid,” Frerin finally says, still unable to look at him. “But I never realised.”

“Realised what?”

“That if— when Thorin reclaims Erebor, he’ll be King. I’ll be his heir.”

“But your Grandfather was King,” Bilbo points out. “Didn’t you grow up as a prince? I can imagine you must have had quite a training.”

“Yes, of course,” Frerin replies, releasing a short puff of air through his nose as he shakes his head. At himself or at Bilbo, Bilbo’s not quite sure. “But even back then, I never thought about what it actually means for me. Grandfather was King of Erebor, and there were Father and Thorin before me... It seems so childish, but it didn’t occur to me that they could die. Not once. Death is such a foreign concept when you’re young. So distant and obscure. And after...” Frerin’s breath stalls, and he swallows. “After that I never shed a second thought on the crown. All this time, I was so used to being a nobody. I don’t think I’m ready to fill that role again. I don’t know how to. And I don’t know how to talk to him, because _he_ never left it. He never forgot about who he’s supposed to be.”

Bilbo sits up straight, staring at Frerin, tongue-tied. He doesn’t know what to say, or how to comfort. He cannot even begin to understand how heavy the weight of a kingdom must feel upon one’s shoulders. Thorin always seems so sure in what he does, in what he has set out to do.

It occurs to him in that moment, that perhaps Thorin also has doubts, has fears. That he fills the role of a king leading his people back to their stolen kingdom, because he thinks that it’s what he is supposed to do, that it’s who he is supposed to be. That, in his mind, he doesn’t have a choice.

“But he’s right, you know. In what he said,” Frerin says after a while, absently brushing the dirt off his hands. “Attacking those Trolls without a plan was stupid and reckless, and if it had gone wrong, you could have been killed.” He finally turns to look at Bilbo, and the beginning of a smile shines through the frown on his face. “But don’t let him know I said that, I’d never hear the end of it.”

“He is not a very easy person, is he? Thorin.”

Frerin chuckles. “Nah. But he has his reasons. We’ve never been treated well by strangers and other folk, and things like that leave a mark that’s not exactly easy to erase. But there’s a big and soft heart underneath all of those layers of mistrust and brooding. It just rarely reaches the surface.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt there is,” Bilbo returns quietly, before he has the sense to stop himself.

Frerin arches his eyebrows at that. “You don’t?”

Bilbo looks at him for a long moment, then averts his eyes to look straight ahead instead. The sun has come up, painting the clearing in a beautiful mixture of orange and blue light. The only sound coming from the trees is the quiet chirping of the bird resting in the tall trees around them.

“Well, he’s got all thirteen of you follow him down to face an actual dragon. Speaks a lot about your sense of loyalty to him, don’t you think?”

“And you don’t mind his insults and his utter lack of faith in you?”

Always so honest and direct. Some people might consider it too bold, but it’s exactly this character trait that Bilbo admires about Frerin. About all of the Dwarves, really. They may be stubborn and in utter lack of any sort of manners, but you always know exactly where you stand with them. It’s a nice change after spending all his life with Hobbits who prefer to talk behind your back and gossip, rather than voice their concerns directly and solve the problem quick and easy.

“I admit, it can be irritating and infuriating at times and—” Bilbo halts for a moment, getting so sick of all this snot sticking to his clothes that he reaches into his waistcoat pocket for his handkerchief. He expects to find the ragged piece of cloth Bofur had lent him earlier, but instead his fingers brush against a much softer material, and, without even realising, the touch of a smile finds its way onto his lips.

“And?” Frerin prompts, giving him a curious look.

Bilbo lets go of Thorin’s handkerchief, opting for Bofur’s rag instead. He’d rather not ruin the other one. “Well, my point is— I _understand_. I understand why he’s behaving the way he is. I’m not a warrior like you. I don’t have any skill in battle. I have never even held a sword in my life! Of course he doubts me. I would do the same thing in his place.”

He begins to vigorously scrub his dirty sleeves with the cloth in an attempt to remove the worst of the sticky snot, while his injured hand is awkwardly hovering in the air beside him.

Frerin regards him for a long moment, contemplative. “I didn’t know you admired him so much.”

“It’s got nothing to do with that. I am only trying to look at the situation through his eyes.” Bilbo puts the cloth back into his pocket, giving up on trying to save the ruined coat. “He’s set out to perform this seemingly impossible task... It’s utterly stubborn, if not entirely audacious, perhaps even somewhat foolhardy. But it’s also incredibly brave and noble, and it is obvious that the firmly believes that all of it is worth it. After all, that’s why you are here as well, isn’t it? For him. Even if you do not believe that we’ll succeed.”

Frerin’s mouth falls open, ever so slightly, but he makes no attempt to renounce Bilbo’s words.

“You don’t seem to agree very often, the two of you,” Bilbo continues, and he instantly senses that he’s overstepped some form of invisible boundary when Frerin turns his head and looks away, scrunching up his nose.

“And you?” he asks, passing over Bilbo’s comment. “Why are you here?”

The image of his empty dining room flares up in the back of his mind. How terrifyingly silent it had been. How Bag End had suddenly appeared too big for one single person alone, how dull his life had seemed to him, thought it never had before, not like that. Even after his parents had died, it had always somehow been enough. Until the Dwarves had burst into his life, raided his pantry and sung that song in his living room, and suddenly it just hadn’t been enough anymore.

“I don’t know,” Bilbo answers finally.

“I thought it was brave. Signing the contract, that is. ‘Perhaps even somewhat foolhardy’,” he turns again, flashing a teasing smile at Bilbo, “but I think those seem to be the requirements for a quest as this one. The line between courage and foolishness is a fine one, after all.”

Bilbo tentatively returns the smile, and nods. That’s exactly what his father used to say.

“My brother sets great value on loyalty, and on sincerity,” Frerin continues. “He will come round eventually, you’ll see.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“The way you talk about him. You already seem to hold him in the highest regard, and you have known him for... how long? A couple of weeks at most?”

Bilbo is taken aback for a moment, unsure how to respond. Frerin almost makes it sound like Bilbo’s developed some form of crush on Thorin, which is an entirely ridiculous thought.

“Why, Balin’s story must really have left an impression you,” Frerin teases, as if he’s read Bilbo’s mind. “Already swooning at the thought of dauntless Dwarf warriors and their indestructible oaken branches?”

Bilbo gives a short laugh at the insinuation, but turns his head to hide the colour rising in his cheeks. “I am certainly not _swooning_. Over anyone for that matter. Oaken branch or not.”

Frerin laughs quietly, but then the mirth on his face ebbs away, and every feature of his face falls as if it is being weighed down by some unknown force. It oddly reminds Bilbo of the way Thorin’s face had looked like when Balin had begun to recount the story of the battle. A face hardened by war and the loss and grief that come with it. For the first time, Bilbo thinks, Frerin truly looks his age.

“I do understand the sentiment, though. When I saw him standing there amongst so many slain— after everything that had happened... You should have seen him.” He stares off into the distance, his mind somewhere far away. “He looked so strong and regal and... and invincible. He really did look like a king.”

“You were there? At the battle?” Bilbo blurts out. “Weren’t you a bit too young to fight?”

“Our cousin Dain was 32 when he joined the battle. I was 48, and I wasn’t going to let my family fight alone. Of course I was there.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean— the way Balin told the story, I thought...”

“I know,” Frerin says. “But it doesn’t matter. I am not the hero of this tale, Bilbo.”

Bilbo tilts his head, waiting for Frerin to say more, but the Dwarf has returned to stare at the horizon, lost in thought.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm feeling sad, so here's another chapter. Hope you enjoyed.


	4. Chapter 4

_**“W** ith all that commotion we had with the Orcs and the Wargs and that very strange looking Wizard with bird poo sticking to his face, I didn’t really have the chance to say it, so I am saying it now. I am a reckless, impulsive fool and an immature idiot, and I apologise. Been doing a lot of that since the journey’s begun, I know. I came here to fix things between us, and all I’ve been doing since is argue with you. I’m sorry, Thorin. I’ll be better from now on.”_

Frerin repeats the words mentally, preparing himself to actually face Thorin and apologise and admit that he was wrong, like emotionally-stable adults are supposed to do when they have screwed up. He doesn’t understand why this is so hard.

Then Thorin’s there, sitting down beside him on the ground, and somehow, when Frerin opens his mouth, the only thing he gets out is, “Bird poo.”

“Excuse me?”

“Apple pie?” he covers up quickly, reaching for the plate and almost shoving it into Thorin’s face.

It’s their first evening in Rivendell, and they are all exhausted, and, after that sparse dinner of rabbit food the Elves were so _kind_ to offer them, starving. They have retired to a quiet balcony in a secluded corner of the Elven valley — far away from the Elves, their dull music and intrusive questions and prying gazes. It’s getting colder, and night is slowly, but surely approaching, draping Rivendell in a pink and golden hue.

Nori’s found his way into the kitchen and managed to ‘borrow’ some sausages, which some of the Dwarves are now eagerly roasting above their improvised camp fire, fuelled by disassembled fancy Elven furniture. Some of them sit on the ground, some on the remaining furniture. Even Bilbo is leaning against a pillar, his sprained hand in a sling, using the other one to stuff himself with apple pies, as if he’s never tasted anything better in his life. Frerin is reluctant to admit it, but the pastries _are_ delicious.

The sweet taste reminds him of the apple-cinnamon rolls his grandmother used to bake, and which he, Thorin, and Dis had a habit of stealing from the sheet before they have even had the chance to cool down. One time Thrór had caught them red-handed, and Frerin had been so sure they’d get told off. But instead their grandfather had only winked at them, a sly glint in his eyes that Frerin had never seen again after the gold sickness had got a hold of him. Thrór had then silently walked away, but not before stuffing his own mouth with a cinnamon roll. He can still remember Dis’ giggle, barely suppressed by covering her stumpy little fingers over her mouth, and the way Thorin had stared after their grandfather, completely dumbfounded. Mahal, they had been so young back then.

It’s strange how it’s always the small, the seemingly insignificant memories that stay with you when you’re older. Thinking back, he doesn’t think he’s ever been happier than when he was a child, surrounded by family, untouched by loss and everything that came with it. Even if he had not known it back then. But do you ever truly know when to cherish a moment? No. No, not until it’s gone.

“Yes, I’d love some,” Dwalin barges in, jolting Frerin out of his thoughts and back into the present. He leans over from his place beside Thorin, trying to snatch the plate of apple pies from Frerin’s firm grip.

“You had some,” Frerin remarks, not releasing his hold on the pies. “We don’t want you to get fat, do we?”

“ _Fat_?” Dwalin echoes, tugging more strongly now. “I’ve been fighting and running all week, _nadnith_ , so you better watch your tongue.”

Frerin grins down at him, challenging. “You better watch who you’re calling a boy. I’m still two days older than you, remember?”

Dwalin abruptly sits up, and the sudden movement makes the plate fly from Frerin’s hands. With a loud clang it falls to the ground, still in one piece, but the pies lie scattered around the floor.

“Enough! Not this again,” Thorin interrupts them, unsuccessful in trying to hide the amusement in his voice.

Dwalin picks up one of the pies off the ground, half-heartedly brushes off some of the dirt with his hands, and then stuffs in into his mouth, chewing loudly, as he makes his way over to where Ori and Nori are holding their sausages over the camp fire.

“You enjoy this too much,” Thorin comments.

“If I wasn’t making fun of him, then who would?” Frerin replies, glad to see Thorin’s lips quirk up into a small smile. He lets his gaze wander over the balcony and sees that the halfling has fallen asleep against his pillar. Considering the last two days they had, seeing Bilbo like this is no surprise. He must be exhausted, and it shows. There are crumbs of pastry all over his chin and clothes, and his mouth hangs open, giving way for a bit of drool escaping the corners. He looks as peaceful as Frerin’s ever seen him, and the smile on his lips forms on all on its own.

He looks back at Thorin. “Think it’s past midnight yet?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps.” Thorin answers, in such a nonchalant manner that Frerin realises that he’s forgotten. He’s actually forgotten. Unbelievable.

“How are your eyes?” Frerin tries, still holding onto the hope that Thorin might come to remember on his own. “Feeling any decline of your eye sight these days?”

Thorin gives him the same look he’s given the rabbit-sleigh riding Wizard. “No, not any of the sort. Why would you even ask that?”

“What about your back? Legs? Feel like you need crutches soon?”

“Frerin,” Thorin begins calmly, probably internally questioning Frerin’s sanity, “did you steal the halfling’s pipe weed?”

“Did your hair become whiter over the past few hours? Or is it just my imagination?” Frerin continues, passing over Thorin’s comment. This is absolutely ridiculous, how could this have possibly slipped his mind? “What about your memory? Don’t you feel like you’ve... _forgotten_ something?”

Thorin’s eyes widen, just for a second as it finally, _finally_ dawns on him. Good, because Frerin’s seriously running out of symptoms for senility.

“I forgot,” Thorin breathes. “It didn’t seem important.”

“Nonsense. Of course it’s important,” Frerin exclaims, clapping Thorin on the shoulder, “it’s not every day that you’re turning 195!”

Thorin stills looks entirely too unimpressed to Frerin’s liking. He knows Thorin’s mind is still occupied with the moon runes on the map, with how they’re going to find the hidden door in time for Durin’s day. But can’t they have this one day off? One day without putting Erebor above everything else, just one single day of normality?

“I have something for you,” Frerin says, reaching into his coat pocket to pull out the parchment and the small pouch Dis had given him back home. “Happy Birthday, _nadad_.”

Thorin takes first the pouch, holding it over his outstretched palm and giving it a gentle shake until the small objects land on his hand.

Thorin’s face goes blank in a matter of seconds, and he takes one of the little metal beads between his fingers, inspecting is closely, as if he cannot believe it’s real. “How did you get this? I thought... I thought they were lost.”

“Dis had them,” Frerin says gently.

Thorin furrows his brow. “Dis? How did she—”

“Mum gave them to her.”

“ _Amad_ gave them to her? When?” Thorin wants to know, and the creases in his brow only deepen as he leans closer, the look in his eyes growing more urgent, more confused. “Why? Why would she gives these up? These are her marriage beads, she would never have given them away, not if she—”

“Dis said it was before the attack, Thorin,” Frerin explains quietly. He hands Thorin the parchment, giving an encouraging nod. “Read the letter, all right? It’s from Dis. She’ll explain everything.”

Thorin tears his eyes away from the bead in his hand, clenching his hand tightly around it, and opens the letter.

His eyes move back and forth, following the lines. Here and there the ghost of a smile tickles his lips, and when he’s finished reading, Frerin can see the dampness threatening to spill over the rim of his eyes.

Frerin doesn’t know exactly what it says. He doesn’t even know why Dis has chosen to give them to Thorin now, after all of these years of keeping them hidden. He knows only what Dis had told him. That she had begged their mother to stay with her, to not go back into the burning ruins of their home. That their mother had pressed the beads into Dis’ palm, as a promise that she’ll surely come back to get them.

He knows that his mother didn’t keep her promise.

Frerin gulps, his throat feeling dry as he watches Thorin roll up the parchment again and stuff it in his coat pocket. The beads he fastens on the leather cord around his neck, letting them dangle beside Father’s key.

Before he realises what’s happening, Thorin leans over to him and wraps his arms around Frerin’s sides, pulling him closer. Frerin hesitates, uncertain on how to react. He can’t remember the last time Thorin hugged him. He supposes that’s partly his own fault, too.

Then he feels fingers curl around the fabric of his coat, gripping it tightly, and that’s all it takes for him to ease up and lean into his brother’s embrace. He buries his face in Thorin’s shoulder, glad that he can’t see Frerin’s face.

“I actually got one more present,” Frerin announces once Thorin pulled away again. He clears his throat to force the tightness away. “It’s nothing special, but it’s from me.”

He leans to the side, reaching for his backpack. He takes out the wooden pipe, handing it to Thorin. “I haven’t seen you smoking recently, so I supposed you’ve managed to splinter the end of yours. Because, dear brother, you don’t smoke. You chew. It’s disgusting. So here, have this one.”

“What if I break this one as well?”

“Well, then I know what I can get you next year for your birthday.”

Thorin laughs, actually _laughs_ at him. Not one of those repressed chuckles, or the smiles where you can’t decipher whether it’s supposed to be a frown or an expression of joy. Been a while since he’s heard that sound, too.

Thorin turns the pipe over, letting his thumb run over the engraved runes. “My name,” Thorin reads. He looks up at Frerin, lips still curved. “Does that mean you made it yourself?”

“Of course I did.” Frerin replies. It’s Dwarven tradition to give out hand-made gifts on each other’s birthday, and while he was carving the pipe, he made sure to only write Thorin’s name. No epithet, no sign of heritage, no royal titles. Just Thorin. “Bifur helped with the difficult parts, but I mostly carved it myself. He’s good at explaining. It’s actually sort of fun, really. Maybe I’ll carve a little piglet for young Gimli when—”, he quickly stops himself from saying ‘when we get back’,“—when they’ll catch up with us.”

“He’s not actually that young anymore,” Thorin points out. If he noticed the slip, then he doesn’t say anything. “I do not think he is going to have much use for a toy.”

“Hard to believe the way Gloin keeps raving on about ‘his wee lad’,” Frerin laughs.

“He really does, doesn’t he?” Thorin returns, grinning at him.

“ _Look at this portrait_!” Frerin mimics, “ _I’ve only shown it to you a billion times this evening_!”

Now it’s Thorin turn to laugh. “Quiet or he’ll hear you.”

“He won’t hear me, he’s on the other side of this balcony.”

“And what are you lads laughing about?” Gloin suddenly chimes in. He’s towering above them, arms propped up at his sides, and Frerin doesn’t know why, but he breaks into laughter again, almost doubling over. His stomach starts to hurt, and tears well up in his eyes, but it’s so easy to laugh tonight that he finds it hard to stop.

“Nothing in particular,” Thorin replies seriously, not even batting an eye. “Frerin merely may have underestimated the effects of the halfling’s pipe weed. It is a lot stronger than anticipated, it seems.”

“Has he now?” Gloin asks, and Thorin nods, so solemnly that Frerin has to fight against another burst of laughter with everything he has.

“Oi, are we already giving out presents?” Dwalin barks, gesturing to the pipe in Thorin’s hand. “Is it even midnight yet?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Frerin says. “Let’s just pretend it is.”

“All right,” Dwalin agrees, going back to rummage through his belongings. It takes a while, but he eventually finds what he was searching for. “Ah, here it is.”

Attracted by the noise, the others soon join in, giving Thorin presents of their own, congratulating him. Nori goes off and later returns with several bottle of Elvish wine stuffed in his arms, and that’s when the celebration truly starts. Bofur performs another reprise of ‘The Man in the Moon’, and it doesn’t take long until the others follow suit, singing the wrong lyrics and horribly off-tune, but nobody has the mind to care.

Now, they are crammed around the camp-fire, almost stumbling over one another to catch a glimpse of the drawn portrait Thorin had been given by Ori. It shows not only Thorin himself, but, knowing that Thorin is not exactly the type to take pleasure at gazing at a picture of only himself, the young scribe has also chosen to include Frerin, Dis, and the boys.

In the drawing, they are sitting in what Frerin instantly recognises as the small sitting room in Dis’ chambers in Ered Luin, and all of it is painted so vividly and real that Frerin feels a sting of homesickness. Thorin is sitting by his harp, the hands on the strings, his face distant, serious, the eyebrows pushed together, and entirely focused on the instrument before him. Dis is on the cosy little sofa by the mantelpiece, a book placed in her lap, her dark hair as messy and untamed as always. Fili and Kili are sitting beside her, and Kili’s eyes are pressed closed, the laughter lines around them more prominent than ever, and his mouth is wide open with laughter. Fili is looking at his brother, lips curved in a smile, much more softer and subtle than Kili’s roar, but no less merry.

Frerin himself is standing beside the window, and though he knows it’s supposed to be him — he recognises his bright-coloured hair he often wears tied back, the curved nose, the worn-out boots he’s had since forever — but it still seems so different from what he’s used to see when he catches his reflection in the mirror.

In Ori’s drawing, Frerin looks young. Proud. Unburdened. Strong. It’s nothing like the fake smile he’s so used to seeing, the hunched shoulders that always feel to heavy, the tired eyes looking back at him in the mirror. The person in the picture looks like a stranger.

Ori has captured all of the others so truthfully, their expressions and mannerisms so accurately, that Frerin can’t help but wonder... Is that how others perceive him?

“I can’t believe it,” Kili laughs. “That frown right there, and the eyebrows — he always looks like that when he’s playing. I don’t know how you captured this, but this is amazing, Ori.”

“All of it is very accurate, Ori,” Frerin comments, pushing aside his thoughts, opting for a smile instead, and, thanks to the wine, it comes easily, “you are truly skilled. Especially Thorin’s nose, though it’s a wonder it fit on the parchment.”

The company explodes with laughter, and even Thorin’s mouth curls upward at the jest.

“If I remember correctly,” Ori says quietly, the most sinister smile on his face, “then you and your brother have the same shape of nose, Frerin. So I suppose I drew both of you quite truthfully.”

A roar erupts from Dwalin’s throat, the sound so loud and booming that Frerin cannot believe that Bilbo is still able to sleep with all of this noise. At the sight of Frerin’s slowly turning scarlet, Ori’s smile becomes triumphant.

“Hilarious,” Frerin says dryly, throwing a one of the scattered pies in Dwalin’s direction, which the Dwarf effortlessly dodges with a slight sway of his head.

“Excuse me,” Thorin says, giving Frerin a soft pat on the back and getting to his feet. Frerin turns around and the world begins to spin. Now truly beginning to feel the effects of the Elvish liquor, his eyes following his brother to the other side of the balcony. He watches how Thorin gets rid of his heavy fur-trimmed leather coat, covering the halfling’s sleeping (and shivering, Frerin can make out if he’s concentrating really hard) body with it.

As Thorin crosses the balcony to get back to the Dwarves and the warm fire, Frerin quickly turns again, still contemplating whether he’s starting to see things that are not there.

“Somebody should probably wake him later,” Frerin says once Thorin’s sat down again.

Thorin grunts in agreement, but otherwise does not show the slightest inclination to elaborate further on the topic.

“Why are you like this?” Frerin asks, making a face.

“Like what?”

“Being all stoic and grumpy around Bilbo,” Frerin clarifies. “Telling Gandalf you won’t occupy yourself with the Hobbit’s safety.”

“Because he is just another burden I neither have the time or the mind to look after.”

“Right,” Frerin says wryly, forming a pout. “And still you make sure he’s not freezing his hairy little toes off in this _terribly_ cold summer night.”

“If he gets sick, he will hold us back,” Thorin proclaims. “I would rather not risk it.”

“You were basically ready to become Troll dinner to save his life,” Frerin remarks, unimpressed.

Thorin looks like he’s fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “Your point being?”

“You are worried about him,” Frerin says, and when Thorin tries to protest, he raises his finger, waggling it at Thorin’s face and ignoring the way Thorin pushes his brows together and frowns at him. “No, no, you are. It doesn’t matter what you told the Wizard, you _do_ feel responsible for the fussy little sourpuss.”

Thorin opens his mouth, but then shuts it again, firmly pressing his lips together. Frerin knows defeat when he sees it, and it feels glorious.

“Do you _like_ him?” Frerin singsongs.

“Do not be absurd.”

“He _is_ kind of cute with all of that curly hair and that fussiness of his. I bet he’s a great cook too, judging from what the boys told me about the dinner you lot had at his home.” His speech is turning sluggish, and he gives his head a shake, slurring the next words and not knowing why exactly the thought seems so important to him. “Don’t know about the feet, though. Still need some time to get used to those. I mean, all that hair? And why on earth is his chin so hairless?”

“All right, come one, to bed with you,” Thorin says, and before Frerin has the chance to protest, his brother is already turning to his side to seek eye-contact with Dwalin. “Dwalin! Help me carry my idiotic little brother to his chamber.”

##

_**B**_ ilbo’s eyes flutter open, just for a few seconds, before he closes them again, shying away from the bright light of the crescent moon above him. He feels groggy, as if he’s just come home from a night at the Green Dragon, and a bit dazed as well. Barely even aware that he is still sitting upright with his head resting on a pillar made of hard, solid stone, Bilbo cannot find the strength within him to move just single one inch.

The chilly night air sends shivers through his body, and he instinctively reaches for a blanket he _knows_ isn’t there. Except—

Except there is.

His fingers curl around the fuzzy material, fur, his memory tells him, and he opens one eye, daring a peek. His vision is still blurry and distorted, but there is definitely someone there, crouching before him. Bilbo opens the other eye, tentatively, and blinks several times until the image gains shape and becomes clear.

“Thorin?” Bilbo mumbles, barely able to keep his eyes open to focus on two blue eyes staring right into his own. Or did he even open them? Is he dreaming right now? If he is, it’s certainly a strange dream. “What time is it?”

“Late,” Thorin says softly. “It won’t be long until dawn.”

Bilbo eyes him warily, still trying to decide if this is real or not. “What are you doing?”

“Waking you,” Thorin replies flatly, as if it’s obvious. “Surely you do not wish to spend the night in this place.”

Bilbo makes a vague, affirmative sound, and pulls the fur-blanket or whatever it is up to his chin. A mixture of pine wood and smoke fills his nostrils, and he takes a deep breath through his nose, taking in the pleasantly rich scent. Before he can do anything to stop it, his lids betray him and fall shut again, just as a yawn escapes his mouth. “I think heard someone yell about presents.”

“Aye, that was Dwalin,” Thorin says. “I did not believe anyone would be able to sleep through a Dwarven celebration, but it seems you are more resilient than I thought.”

It’s the unfamiliar playful tone underneath those words that finally manage to shake Bilbo awake. He opens his eyes again, lifts his head, and gapes at Thorin, who has just _teased_ him. Pushing his brows together, Bilbo lets his gaze wander over the balcony, finding it utterly deserted. “Has everyone else already gone to sleep?”

“Yes, the last ones retired to their beds just now,” Thorin confirms. “I was about to do the same.”

“All right, then I’m coming with you,” Bilbo announces, and just as Thorin’s eyebrows lift he realises how horribly ambiguous that must have sounded. He really needs to get some proper sleep. Now. “To my own bed, I mean,” he adds quickly. “I am not too overly fond of back pains, sleeping on the ground for more than two months has given me enough of those to last a lifetime. So if there’s an actual bed to sleep in, I’m certainly going to make use of it.”

He has just got to his feet, the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders, when he notices the curved shape of Thorin’s lips, hears the soft huff of air coming out of his nose, the sound almost close to a chuckle.

“What were you celebrating?” Bilbo asks as the two of them start walking to the directions of the lodgings Elrond has appointed to them. “The summer solstice?”

As if by some unspoken agreement, they take their time in putting one foot in front of the other, falling into step without becoming particularly aware of it. There’s no rush in the way Thorin ties his hands on his back, no impatience in the side-glances he gives Bilbo. All of it falls into place, almost naturally, as if they were doing this every night, though they have never done so before, never had a conversation consisting of more than a brief exchange of words.

“Among other things, yes,” Thorin eventually replies.

“You know, that’s the first time I met Gandalf. On Midsummer’s Eve,” Bilbo starts, and Thorin watches him, listening intently. “The Lithedays are always a cause for celebration in the Shire, and there’s a great feast and a lot of dancing and drinking. Old Took used to hold these great festivities, but all of the Hobbit children were looking forward to Midyear’s day most of all, because that’s when Gandalf came into Hobbiton. And he— every year he brought those fireworks with him. All those different colours lighting up the whole night sky. It was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen.” He gives his head a shake, so sure that he’s been rambling again, that Thorin doesn’t even care to know all of these things. But when he glances at the Dwarf at his side, he still finds the pair of eyes fixed upon him, wide and containing a glint of genuine interest.

Bilbo doesn’t know whether it’s proper to ask about Dwarven traditions, given the secrecy the company constantly displays in regard to matters of their own culture, but his curiosity is louder than the voice in the back of his mind urging him to keep quiet. “What do Dwarves do on Midsummer’s Eve?” Bilbo asks, and, remembering the snippets of conversation he’s heard in his sleep-deprived mind, adds, “do you give each other presents? Is that part of your holiday tradition?”

“No,” Thorin says, luckily not offended in the slightest. “Our form of celebration does not differ much from yours. Feasting. Dancing. Drinking.”

“So, no different from what you’re doing on every other evening of the year then?”

Thorin gives a soft chuckle, and Bilbo’s still not entirely convinced that this isn’t a dream after all.

“But what about the presents?”

“Hm?”

“You said Dwalin was talking about giving out presents,” Bilbo reminds him. “What, is it someone’s birthday?” he suggest, more as a joke than anything else.

Thorin gives a non-committal hum, reluctant to elaborate further, and that’s all it takes for Bilbo to put together the pieces.

“Yours,” he breathes, and when Thorin doesn’t deny it, Bilbo knows he’s ventured right with his guess. “It’s your birthday, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Thorin confirms after some hesitation. “My brother thought it to be a good idea to celebrate early.”

Bilbo snorts. “I can imagine.”

They’ve reached the door to their lodgings, and they slowly come to a halt. Bilbo puts his weight from one foot to the other and his nose gives a quick twitch, an unconscious nervous habit he can’t seem to get rid of. The sky is still dark, the path before them only illuminated by moonlight, but already there are birds singing, perched up high in the trees or on the roofs of the tall, Elven-made buildings towering up into the sky. In the distance, Bilbo can make out a faint rosy gradient of colour, carrying the promise of a beautiful sunrise.

“You should rest,” Thorin says. “We’ll leave tomorrow at dawn.”

“So soon?”

That leaves only one day of exploring this beautiful place. And he’ll probably sleep through most of it. What a shame, really. All this time when he had been a fauntling he had always been in search of Elves and the like. Rivendell is everything what he thought it would be, and more. The peacefulness, the food, the library, the art and the history that he’s itching to explore in the morrow. Maybe he’ll even find the chance to speak to Elrond.

“We must reach the hidden door in time for Durin’s day,” Thorin persists, and for a moment the usual stoic demeanour of the Dwarven King returns. “Autumn will soon be upon us, and we cannot risk arriving too late. The earlier we leave, the better.”

It’s obvious Thorin doesn’t want to spend more time with the Elven valley than necessary, and while Bilbo still doesn’t understand this ridiculous feud between the races, he doesn’t try to argue with the Dwarf. Who knows what kind of dangers they’ll face on their path to Erebor, want kind of hindrances will hold them up on their way?

“Well, I better give this back to you,” Bilbo says, using his uninjured hand to reach for the blanket draped around his shoulders.

“Let me,” Thorin says, eyes flickering down to Bilbo’s sling.

“It’s no problem, I can do it,” Bilbo insists. “Oin said I could take it off in a few days or so. The swelling’s finally gone down, and it barely hurts anymore. It was really just a sprain.”

Thorin nods, raising his own hand to accept what Bilbo now sees isn’t a blanket at all. He does a double take as the realisation falls over him, and his breath catches in his throat. “Thank you for the... er, for your coat.”

Thorin merely inclines his head again, brushing it off as if it’s nothing, and he turns on his heel, off to his own bedroom.

A part of Bilbo still fails to grasp why Thorin had even been talking to him, when all he’s ever done in the past is avoid any form of contact with Bilbo at all. But he’s glad — glad that he no longer seems to be a thorn in Thorin’s side.

Bilbo almost goes off to his own chamber, when his lips start moving and the word tumbles out of his mouth. “Thorin.”

Thorin stops, turning half around to face Bilbo, the hand still on the door knob. “Yes, Master Baggins?”

Bilbo gives him a small smile. “Happy Birthday.”

Bilbo thinks he can see tiny hint of movement on the corners of Thorin’s mouth, and then the door closes behind him and he’s gone. Bilbo stares at the the closed door for a moment longer, now on his own again, standing on the stone steps illuminated by the soft rays of the rising sunlight screening through the crowns of the trees above him.

##

_**F**_ rerin is never going to drink a drop of wine again in his life. Not. One. Drop.

He doesn’t know which is worse, the terrible headache that rather resembles the feeling of being repeatedly hit in the head with a very large hammer, or the fact that he’s overslept, which has caused him to miss the look on the Elves’ faces when the entire company decided to take a bath in one of Elrond’s fountains. He imagines that must have been quite a sight to behold.

It’s evening again, and the Dwarves have once again gathered on ‘their’ balcony, waiting for their wet clothes to dry while eating dinner, determined to make the best of the last night in Rivendell. Thorin’s decided to leave at first light, giving them enough time to rest throughout the day, for which Frerin is immensely grateful.

He hasn’t seen Bilbo since last night, not since, in his hazy drunken mind, he’s imagined Thorin covering the shivering Hobbit with his coat. Which, thinking about it now, relatively sober, sounds even more ridiculous. Mahal, he’s certainly underestimated the effects of that dreadful Elven liquor.

There’s a loud crash to his left, and when glances at his side he sees that the table Bombur was sitting on has collapsed under the Dwarf’s weight. _Oh well_ , Frerin thinks, _more furniture to burn_. The other Dwarves erupt into loud guffaws, and all of it is so terribly _loud_ , but seeing all of their laughing faces, Frerin can’t find it within him to complain. Instead, he vaults to his feet and slips away from the balcony, determined to find a quiet place where he can have some space, pack his bags, and rest until they venture in the Misty Mountains. And that’s not going to be an easy undertaking, that much is clear. He just hopes the weather will be on their side.

He is about to climb the stone steps at the foot of the balcony, but stops when he becomes aware of arguing voices coming closer. One of them he immediately identifies as Gandalf’s.

“If the Dwarves take back the mountain, our defences in the east will be strengthened.”

Frerin trusts that Wizard as far as he can throw him, and hearing him meddle behind their backs does nothing to ease that mistrust. It only tells him that it’s not misplaced, but entirely well-founded. He takes another step, straining his ears until he’s able to place the second voice as Elrond’s. That damned, nosy Elf. Of course he wouldn’t leave the matter alone. ‘Academic interest’ wasn’t exactly the brightest idea of a pretext.

“It is a dangerous move, Gandalf.”

“It also dangerous to do nothing!” Gandalf exclaims. “The throne of Erebor is Thorin’s birthright. What is it you fear?”

It’s then that Frerin sees that he’s not alone eavesdropping on the Elf and Wizard. He can clearly make out Bilbo’s small silhouette at the top of the stairs, slowly moving closer to the railing.

“Have you forgotten? A strain of madness runs deep in that family.”

Frerin’s stomach drops to his knees. He mustn’t have heard correctly. Surely, the Elf _did not_ just mention the gold sickness. As if it were any of his business, as if he had _any_ idea—

“His grandfather lost his mind, his father succumbed to the same sickness,” Elrond continues, his voice rising. “Can you swear Thorin Oakenshield will not also fall?”

Frerin’s blood begins to boil, and the only thing keeping him from walking after Elrond and tell that damned Elf exactly where he can stick his ‘concerns’ is the thought that at least Thorin wasn’t present to hear their words.

His brother had been closest to their grandfather, even when Thrór had become sick and slowly changed into someone unrecognisable. Thorin had been the one watching over him, taking care of him, masking sure he was eating enough, reminding him to sleep. The one to spend days and nights in the treasure hall, waiting, hoping. All of it in vain.

And now these two are talking about it, having the sheer audacity to discuss the _disadvantages_ it could bring, without considering the consequences, mindlessly adding to the fear and the worry of a sickness that had been haunting his brother all his life. As if all of them were mere chess pieces in a much grander master plan, pawns that have to act like it is expected of them.

What if Thorin had been the one to walk up this stairs instead of Frerin, if he had been the one to listen to their imprudent words?

Gandalf and Elrond start moving again, the voice getting quieter and quieter, ebbing away until they are too far away, and the sound of their argument slowly dies off.

Silence ensues, and Frerin is about to move up the stairs, to make an attempt to explain to Bilbo, making him promise that he won’t say anything to the others, just do something that could possible fix this, when he hears yet another voice. Recognition hits him like a blow to his stomach.

Thorin.

Thorin was there, Thorin heard every coming out of that sodding Elf’s mouth.

Internally cursing, Frerin braces himself, ready to handle whatever reaction this will bring out of his brother.

But nothing happens.

As quietly as possible, Frerin takes another step, until he’s able to take in the image of Thorin and Bilbo, both of them together, standing side by side, talking. Bilbo is pointing at something, and it takes a moment, but Frerin recognises several glowing spots hovering in the air. Fireflies.

Thorin is saying something Frerin cannot make out from where he’s standing, but he can clearly see Bilbo tearing his eyes away from the glowing bugs before him, setting his gaze on Thorin instead. And Mahal, Frerin never would have believed it. Every feature of the halfling’s face lights up, and the picture he paints is close to challenging the radiant glow of the fireflies dancing around the two of them. And he’s not even smiling. He’s just staring up at Thorin, listening to his words, and all of it reminds Frerin of the way Tóki used to look at Dis when she didn’t notice him staring.

He can’t decide which is more astonishing to witness — the complete and utter calmness radiating from Thorin’s usually so tense body, or the way Bilbo grouchy-is-my-middle-name Baggins is looking at Thorin as if he’s just discovered a second sun.

Slowly, Frerin retreats, deciding to give the two of them some space and go pack his bags like he had set out to do, still shaking his head in disbelief, the strange giddy smile never leaving his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always felt like Thorin and Dwalin had a similar age, that's why I changed Dwalin's birth-year to 2751 (originally it's 2772).  
> Hope you enjoy!


	5. Chapter 5

**_B_** ilbo starts to miss the comfortableness of Rivendell the moment they set foot out of the Elven valley. Now it’s back to scarce and simple food, relentless exposure to rain and cold alike, and having to sleep on the hard, uncomfortable ground. That’s the thing he’ll probably never get used to. That, and the utter lack of greens in the Dwarves’ diet.

The ponies had been lost in the Warg attack before entering Rivendell, and Bilbo’s feet hurt from all the walking, in spite of the support provided by his newly acquired walking stick. He grips the wood tightly, now free of his sling, and keeps in an exhausted sigh, determined to force himself to keep going. He’s just finally started to feel like a real member of the company, and he’s not going to jeopardise that now because of a short, weak moment of breathlessness. 

“Uncle, don’t you think think we should stop for a while?” Fili suddenly suggests. He has to shout to be heard over the loud waterfall above them. “We’ve been walking since sun-up, and well... It’s a nice place to rest.”

At the sound of his nephew’s voice, Thorin comes to a halt, lifting his head to take in their surroundings.

It is a nice place indeed, Bilbo silently agrees. Perhaps ‘nice’ is an understatement in this case. They are standing beneath the shelter of a cliff, the water running down in a small, shallow brook, guarding them from unwanted eyes and ears. The ground is covered with some green patches of grass — a welcome sight and a pleasantly soft touch underneath his feet. Bilbo finally lets out that sigh, leaning back against the cool rock for support.

“We need to move on,” Thorin says, now standing beside Fili.

Fili moves closer to his uncle, whispering something in his ears. Whatever it is, it makes Thorin’s eyes flicker ever so slightly in Bilbo’s direction, and his features twist first into a scowl, which then quickly turns into a defeated frown. He presses his mouth into a thin line, giving Fili a nod.

“Very well, you have an hour to get some rest. Gloin, get the fire going. We might as well eat something while we’re here. Yes, Nori, that also includes the sausages you still have hidden in your bag.”

Nori mutters something unintelligible under his breath, but does as he was told.

Bilbo sits down on the rocky riverbank, propping himself up with his arms, and closes his eyes, enjoying the warm touch of sunlight on his skin. The steady gurgle of the brook, now mingled with the smell of freshly cooked sausages and the soft breeze of the mountain wind breathes new energy into Bilbo. His cloudy moon is soon pushed aside and replaced by a content smile spreading across his cheeks. 

Then a large shadows covers his face, blocking the sunlight. Bilbo blinks, squinting up at Frerin towering over him.

“Here,” the Dwarf says, reaching into his backpack and bringing forth a folded napkin.

“What is it?” Bilbo asks as he reaches out and takes the napkin from Frerin’s hand.

“Open it,” Frerin suggests, sitting down on the ground beside him. 

Bilbo carefully unfolds the cloth, unable to stop the little crumbs of puff pastry falling into his lap. The smell of apple pie quickly finds his way into his nose, and for a moment he almost gets dizzy by the sweet scent.

“I suppose it’s cold and a bit stale by now, but I know you like them, so...” Frerin trails off. 

Bilbo is speechless for a moment, and all he manages is to gape up at the Dwarf.

Frerin furrows his brow, slightly narrowing his eyes, and Bilbo can’t help but note that the family resemblance to Thorin has never been more visible.

“Or you don’t?” Frerin continues, a layer of uncertainty to his voice. “You were practically devouring back in Rivendell, so I thought—”

“Yes. Yes, I do. They’re my favourite, thank you, Frerin,” Bilbo reassures him. “I’m only surprised that you noticed.”

“Believe me, Master Hobbit, _everyone_ noticed you and your undying love for ridiculously sweet pastries. Had to keep myself from yelling at you to get a room, with the sounds you were making.”

“I did not!” Bilbo laughs, teasingly elbowing Frerin in the ribs. “I am entirely respectable. And that includes my impeccable table manners, thank you very much.”

“Whatever you say,” Frerin replies with a mocking smile. He leans forwards and takes a little, flat stone in his hands, turning it over before throwing it over the water, watching it jump over the surface and trail little circles behind.

Bilbo takes a bite out of the apple pie — soundlessly, of course, no munching or moaning involved whatsoever — and raises his head, his eyes unconsciously scanning the company for a dark fur coat. 

Thorin is neither eating nor resting. He stands a few paces away, quite isolated from the rest of the company, his eyes fixed on the white-painted mountain rage above them, a pipe in his hand. Even through the distance between them, Bilbo can see that Thorin’s shoulders are stiff and tensed as he bites down on on the wooden pipe, rather chewing on it than actually smoking.

Thorin’s words still ring in the back of Bilbo’s mind, spoken so low and quietly as if he had been surprised to even say them at all. About fireflies, a rare sight of unreachable freedom shining brightly in the suffocating darkness of confined mountain halls. A life reigned by duty to family and kin, of always putting others first, never allowing oneself to rest, to indulge in comfort, not while his people are still unable to return to their rightful home, to what has been taken from them. 

_“Those things they said about you—”_

_“Are you afraid that they are true?”_

_“No,” Bilbo replied, honestly. “No, I’m not really.”_

_Whatever answer Thorin had expected him to give, it was not that. “Why not?”_

_“Because you are not your Grandfather, Thorin.”_

_Bilbo saw the lines forming on Thorin’s brow. Heard the sharp exhale, puzzlement and amusement at the same time. “It sounds so simply if you say it like that.”_

_“That’s because it is. You are your own person, are you not? There’s no such thing as fated failure. Your own actions are the ones that define you, and not the ones of your forefathers. Imagine if we’d all end up exactly like our parents. A ridiculous thought.”_

_“Is it?”_

_Thorin’s hand was playing with the necklace underneath his tunic, as it often did. Bilbo recognised Thrain’s key immediately, but now there was something else fastened around the leather cord, something there hadn’t been before. He didn’t know what it was, and the distant, guarded look on Thorin’s face told him it was better not pry._

Thorin talked about fireflies, and Bilbo saw the weight on Thorin’s shoulders, the strength it must take to carry it with him, never being able to cast it off. 

Bilbo’s mouth feels incredibly dry as he swallows the last bit of apple pie, the piece almost achingly hard in his throat. 

Fili and Kili join them at their little place at the brook, and Frerin decides to divulge some of the boys' most embarrassing childhood stories, causing to Kili to turn as red as Bilbo’s prize-winning tomatoes and Fili to stare ahead as if he’s just now seeing his life flash before his eyes. They clear up some misunderstandings (“No, Frerin, I most certainly was _not_ asking about Dwarven courting traditions, why are you even telling me this? And can you at least _try_ to keep your voice down?”), which quickly leads to even more confusion that needs to be unravelled (“Kili, you do know my name isn’t actually Boggins, right? Don’t believe everything your uncle tells you.”), and in the end the hour of rest is over far too soon, and before Bilbo knows it, Thorin is standing before them, reminding them that it’s time to get going.

“Come on, get up,” he orders. “We have to go while we still have the daylight.”

Frerin gives a brief nod, instantly getting to his feet. Fili and Kili quickly follow suit, but Bilbo finds himself hesitating for a moment. His eyes, still slightly damp from laughing, tentatively flicker back to the way they came, to the direction he knows Rivendell to be. A sting of longing comes over him, and he thinks of Elrond’s offer for Bilbo to stay, for the fraction of a second almost considering it — but at last he tears his eyes away and swallows, resolute not to act on this fresh surge of homesickness. He’s here now, and he’s not going to turn back. Not before they’ve achieved what they set out to do. 

He can feel Thorin growing impatient, and Bilbo almost wants to tell him that being unnecessarily rushed won’t make him get up any faster, when Thorin’s hand suddenly reaches out.

Bilbo freezes, regarding it. Then he leans forward, putting his hand in Thorin’s, and lets himself be pulled to his feet. Thorin’s hand is warm and dry in his, and so large that Bilbo’s own could almost fit twice in it. 

As soon as he’s standing upright, Thorin lets go again, his fingers slowly grazing over Bilbo’s, the calloused tips lingering on his own before letting go completely. Bilbo can’t stop his mouth from falling open when he notices that Thorin’s breath catches. For a long moment, the Dwarf is simply staring at him, and Bilbo arches his eyebrows, unyieldingly holding Thorin’s gaze. 

Bifur says something in Khuzdul, and Bofur laughs, and Bilbo averts his eyes, just for a brief moment. When he turns again, Thorin has wordlessly turned around and walked off to join the others, and Bilbo takes a deep breath before doing the same, his own footsteps sounding too loud and too fast on the rocky ground, matching the drumming beat of his heart.

 

If he had though the road had been cumbersome, then he had been wrong. So completely and horribly _wrong_. 

“We must find shelter!” Even through the lashing rain and the rumbling of the clouds, Thorin’s voice rings out loud and clear.

“Bless my beard,” Bofur calls out, sounding a tad _too_ impressed over the matter to Bilbo’s liking, “the legends are true! Giants — Stone Giants!”

Bilbo looks at the moving rocks in horror, and his stomach gives an unpleasant turn at the mere sight. He squints, desperately trying to keep his eyes open through the heavy downpour around him. Bofur’s right, the stones gain more and more shape until they look like something close to human. One of the Giants picks up a large piece of rock and throws it forwards where it hits the other Giant’s side with a thundering crash. 

A thunder battle indeed, Bilbo thinks, gulping.

He’s shivering, though no longer from the cold. They will die here. After defeating those three murderous Trolls and successfully escaping a pack of Wargs and Orcs, they will die at the hand of actual _Stone Giants_. If the situation wasn’t so terrifying, Bilbo might have laughed. 

“Kili, grab my hand!” Fili beside him cries.

Too late.

Bilbo throws a glance downwards and sees the immense crack in the rocks getting wider and wider, until the ground beneath them breaks apart, right between Fili’s feet. He stumbles, and Kili’s stuck on the other side, and Bilbo freezes as the realisation hits him that _the ground has literally just broken apart_ , and before he can form another thought he loses his balance, tries to grab a hold of something, anything, but there is nothing there. He’s sure he is going to fall, and he opens his mouth to scream as a hand suddenly holds him back, firmly pressing him back against the rocks.

His mouth still wide open in shock, Bilbo looks up to see Dwalin standing in front of him, shielding his body with his own larger one. The platform beneath them starts to shake, and Bilbo feels sick as he closes his eyes, no longer attempting to force them open. He tries to concentrate on Dwalin’s body before him, on the frantic beating of his own heart, all while hoping that he won’t pass out.

There’s a crash and a mighty tremor, then the weight of Dwalin’s body is gone. With nothing holding him in place anymore, Bilbo slips on the wet ground. As he holds onto the slippery edge of the rocks, he thinks he can hear someone yell Fili’s name. It’s Thorin.

“Where’s Bilbo?” Bofur above him exclaims. “Where’s the Hobbit?”

Bilbo finds himself unable to speak as he keeps trying to pull himself up, to regain a a steady grip.

“Down there!”

“Bilbo!”

No matter how hard he tries, the rocky surface is too slippery from the rain to properly hold onto it. His legs seek a ledge, any kind of ground to regain foothold, finding none. His hand aches, his fingers lose hold one after another, until he’s left to grip the stone with just one hand alone. The brute force of the rain is still merciless, the wind whips his face, stinging his eyes he once more tries to keep open. 

But it’s no use. Bilbo closes his eyes, bracing himself for the inevitable, wondering how long it will take to hit the ground, if the impact will hurt, or if he will pass out long before that.

His hand loses hold of the ridge, and Bilbo releases the breath he’s been holding, waiting for the fall.

Only, he doesn’t fall. All of a sudden there’s a hand curled around his wrist, gripping tightly, pulling him up. The hand moves under his backpack, pushing and shoving him upwards. He doesn’t comprehend what’s happening at first, the instinct to climb up, to place his feet on solid ground again, to get to safety, too strong to pay mind to anything else. 

He slumps down on the the rocks, breathing frantically, his heart hammering against his chest.

“Thorin!” someone beside him yells.

“Make way, lad!” 

“Thorin! Thorin, grab my hand!” Dwalin continues screaming, and Bilbo opens his eyes to see the company huddled together at the edge of the cliff, all of them trying to reach down, the distinctive voices getting lost in the frenzy of agitated cries. No, not all of them—

“Thorin!” Bilbo shouts. He spurts forwards, his feet carrying him almost on their own volition. 

Dwalin is leaning so far over the edge that half of his body is dangling in the air, while Ori and Bofur hold onto his feet to keep him from falling over the edge as well. Bilbo’s breath hitches as he watches how Thorin manages to place one of his feet on the slope, hoisting himself up. He reaches for Dwalin’s hand, which is now only inches from his own, so close. Their fingertips brush, and Bilbo feels the relief surging through his body as he’s able to breathe again, when there’s a crack and the stone beneath Thorin’s feet gives way.

Beside him, Frerin gives a choked gasp. It’s like time stops for a moment, and the last thing Bilbo sees are Thorin’s blue eyes, locked with his own, the expression almost soft, so out of place in the violent storm around them.

Then he falls.

##

 ** _“F_** rerin?”

“He’s not responding. Frerin!”

“Uncle. Say something, please.”

“What’s the matter with him? Why isn’t he moving?”

“I think he is in shock.”

“We are all in shock, Oin!”

“Calm yourself, Dwalin, shouting won’t do—”

“Don’t tell me what to do! I just watched my best friend die!”

Frerin can’t hear them. He can’t hear or move or think.

The mist is too thick, the rain is too loud, too violent, everything’s just _too much_. Invisible walls come closing in, squeezing him tightly, stealing his breath. His vision darkens, and then it hits him, like a hard, unflinching punch in the gut, and he half-mindedly lifts his hand and clasps it on his mouth, retching, his chest heaving, while his other hand clutches the sharp edge of the cliff as if it’s a lifeline that keeps him from drowning. 

The images rain down on him, infesting his mind, until he is no longer looking down into the seemingly bottomless abyss, but in Tóki’s red-rimmed brown eyes, blood dripping from the corners of his mouth as he makes an last effort to speak, there’s blood smeared all over his hands, thick and warm, making them slippery, and then the light dies, the eyes set, staring up at the sky, and it feels like a knife has been stabbed into his chest, and it keeps twisting and turning, and it doesn’t matter how long he screams, how violently he shakes the lifeless body in is arms, the pain doesn’t stop—

Frerin shuts his eyes, but it keeps coming back at him, mercilessly, Dwalin’s hushed voice not meant for him to hear—

_“...had to pry his rotting body out of his hands—_

_“I don’t know how long, a day, maybe two—”_

_“...butchered them—”_

_“I don’t know what happened, he refuses to say—”_

_Dis sobbing into Thorin’s arms, a teacup shattered on the floor, the pieces beyond repair—_

A strangled noise escapes the back of his throat, and he closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath through his nose as he struggles to regain control over his body, over his mind, and as soon as he’s certain that he is not going to vomit, he lowers his hand, waiting for the twist in his stomach to grow weaker.

He opens his eyes, directing them at the company, and he knows he’s moved his lips when the others suddenly turn and stare at him.

“He’s not dead.” Like all the voices, his own sounds far away, muffled and distorted, not real.

None of this is real. This isn’t happening. Thorin isn’t dead, he’d _know_.

“Laddie—”

“He’s not dead,” Frerin repeats, more firmly now, but it still feels as if the voice coming out of his mouth doesn’t belong to him. “We need to search the lower levels of the mountain side. Perhaps he’s fallen into a chasm. He can’t be heard over the rain and the wind, so we need to find him on our own. His leg could be broken, or he could have passed out from the fall...” Frerin keeps rambling, and the words tumble out of his mouth without taking any breaks for breath. He soon feels like passing out again.

“Frerin,” Balin says, his tone distressingly gentle.

“He could be bleeding, lying somewhere, alone and unconscious. He needs our help, we need to—”

“Frerin,” Balin tries again, the calmness never leaving his voice. How can he be so calm? His brother needs them right now, _every single damn second matters_.

“WHY ARE WE STILL WASTING TIME ARGUING ABOUT THIS?” Frerin screams.

Balin flinches, but doesn’t move away. “We all saw him fall. These mountains are too high, the fall is too low. There is no way he could have survived this. I’m sorry, Frerin, but he is—”

“Don’t you dare say ‘dead’. He is not dead.” Frerin looks around, taking in their solemn, grieving faces, and scoffs. “I can’t believe this. You are giving up. How can you give up so easily?”

He gets up, paying no mind to the rocks scraping his knees. His legs move with no sense of purpose or direction, he just knows that he needs to go searching for Thorin, do something, do anything. He can’t just accept it. 

“Lad,” Balin attempts once more. He grabs Frerin by the arm, keeping him in place. Frerin tries to break free, but the old Dwarf’s grip is surprisingly firm. “We cannot stay here. It is not safe. We will die if we do not find shelter.”

“I don’t care!” His throat is achingly tight, and his breathing is turning rapid again, and he can’t think, he can’t think—

“ _Yes_. Yes, you do,” Balin says, glaring at him with such an intensity and urgency that Frerin finally stops trying to wriggle out of his grip, going completely slack. Balin’s eyes flicker to the side, and Frerin follows his gaze. 

Fili and Kili are staring at him, their eyes wide and fear-struck. Kili, who’s always unfazed and carefree no matter what stands in his way, who always seeks out danger just to laugh in its face, is as still as a rock, clutching onto his older brother’s sleeve, holding it so tightly that his knuckles are turning white. He hasn’t seen Kili like this since he was a child. And that’s all it takes for him to remember, to bring him back down to earth, to stop him from focussing on his own feelings alone.

He’s not the only one who’s lost someone.

“Uncle,” Fili says, attempting to keep his voice from trembling, “please.”

Frerin swallows and inhales, tries to steady the rhythm of his breaths. He internally counts to ten, just like Dis told him to do whenever everything got too much, too overwhelming. When he’s done, the world around him has finally stopped spinning, and his heartbeat is gradually growing steadier. 

He’s more focused, not exactly calm, but calm enough to think. He gives Fili a nod, and Balin drops his hand, his stare softening.

Frerin walks ahead and leads the party, trying to model his behaviour after what he thinks Thorin would do in a situation like this, solely concentrating on getting all of them to safety. They soon find a cave in the mountain wall, unoccupied, dry, and relatively warm. It shelters them from the rain, giving them enough to regain their energy until they’re able to set off again.

Moving almost mechanically, Frerin sits down on the hard, barren ground. He carefully places his bow in front of him and rests his head against the wall. He doesn’t set up his sleeping roll. He’s got no intention of getting any sleep tonight.

It’s awfully quiet in the cave, and the silence and the uncertainty hanging over them all is smothering, almost unbearably so. There mere thought of Thorin lying somewhere on the rocks, alone, bruised and battered, while they are here, unable to help, makes Frerin’s chest ache. He’s supposed to be out there looking for him. He was supposed to keep Thorin safe, that’s why he is even _on_ this journey, the sole reason why he came.

And he failed.

He failed, he failed, he _failed—_

“Stop it, you’re hurting yourself.”

Frerin is barely aware of Fili sitting down beside him and taking hold of his hand to guide it away from the sharp bump on the ground. He hadn’t even realised rubbing his thumb against it.

Kili slumps down on his other side, not uttering a single word, his face still so horribly pale, while Fili gets some bandages from his bag and begins to wrap it around Frerin’s bleeding thumb.

“It should be _me_ taking care of _you_ ,” Frerin croaks out. “I’m your— your uncle. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be.”

“Shh, don’t talk like that,” Fili whispers, securing the ends of the bandage. “We take care of each other. _That’s_ how it’s supposed to be.”

All Frerin can do is nod, his throat still so achingly tight. His eyes have begun to sting, and he keeps his fingers curled to a fist to keep his hand from shaking. He’s this close to breaking down completely, but seeing Fili’s face, the brave expression he wears, the way he chooses to handle this, always so selfless and caring; it’s the final straw that makes Frerin realise that he needs to be stronger than his fears. He needs to be more like Fili. 

“Kili?” Frerin swallows the lump in his throat, tearing his gaze away from Fili and turning to his youngest nephew instead. “Kili, I’ll find him. He’s still alive, I’m sure of it. Besides, Thorin’s entirely too stubborn to die. And certainly not by the hands of some _Stone Giants_.”

Kili doesn’t say anything, merely nods. The expression in his eyes is empty, unfocused, haunted, and Frerin’s heart gives a twist. It’s a sight he never wished to see again.

He raises his arm to drape it around Kili’s shoulders, pulling his youngest nephew closer to him. “He’s alive,” he repeats quietly, pressing the side of his head against Kili’s.

He looks back to Fili again, whose eyes are fixed on the bow lying before Frerin’s feet, the composed demeanour crumbling for a second, and he understands at once. Before he has the chance to say anything, Fili has already got to his feet, throwing a last quick glance at his brother, blinking the dampness in his eyes away. “I will keep a lookout, see if the rain clears.”

“Bofur’s got that covered, Fili,” Frerin returns. “Sit back down, all right? You need to get some rest as well.”

Fili studies him, hesitating. “But—”

“I’ll stay awake,” Frerin says. “Don’t worry, I’ll wake you if anything happens. Come on, get some sleep.”

With a cock of his head he indicates to his right, and with some reluctance Fili sits down again, resting his head against the cool stone wall as he releases a deep exhale and closes his eyes. 

It’s silent for a while, and just when Frerin thinks that both of his nephews have finally fallen asleep, Fili stirs again, turning to him, the clear blue eyes as serious as Frerin’s ever seen them. His voice is quiet, the next words spoken as low as possible, careful not to wake Kili.

“Promise me you won’t go out there alone.”

Frerin gives an indignant scoff. “I said we’ll wait until the rain clears, and that’s exactly what we are going to do.”

Unmoved, Fili doesn’t tear his eyes off him. “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“Fili, I’m not lying to you.”

“This isn’t your fault, none of it is. Just like it wasn’t your fault when Father died.”

“ _Fili_ —”

“Do you think I don’t notice it?” Fili says, his voice rising, and he quickly composes himself, eyes flickering briefly to Kili’s still sleeping figure. “The way you stare at Dad’s bow when you think no one’s looking? How you always flinch when someone merely mentions his name? Because that look on your face, it’s not just grief. It’s guilt.”

Without meaning to, Frerin’s eyes shoot to the exit of the cave. His heart picks up speed again, and he doesn’t want to talk about this, he doesn’t even want to think about it, not now, not ever; but when his head spins around again he sees that Fili’s gaze has softened, and somehow, that alone makes it so much harder to just get up and leave. He bites the inside of his cheek, pressing a blunt fingernail hard against his bandaged thumb. The pain makes it easier to speak. It gives his mind something to hold onto. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you are _wrong_ ,” Fili says, gently, but resolutely. “Nobody blamed you for it. Nobody but yourself. And I don’t want you out there, putting yourself in danger because you feel like you need to make it right, or because you don’t care if something happens to you. Because _I_ care. I care if you don’t come back.”

Frerin’s eyes are stinging again. Or perhaps they’ve never really stopped to burn, always on the edge of breaking down, of letting the tears fall freely. He imagines if the tables were turned, if Kili had been the one to fall, swallowed up by the denseness of the fog, uncertain if he’s still alive or dead. Would Fili still sit here and beg him to wait? Ask him to put his own life above that of his brother? Because that’s what it feels like — to make the choice to put Frerin’s own life above Thorin’s.

And he can’t. 

“So _please_ ,” Fili insists. “Promise me. Promise me you won’t go search for Thorin on your own. We will go together. All of us. All right?”

Frerin swallows. Finally, he nods. “All right. I promise.”

Fili’s head sinks back as he exhales, relieved. 

Frerin gives him a small smile — to comfort, to strengthen the lie he just told, or simply to acknowledge the raw display of affection his eldest nephew has just shown him, Frerin doesn’t know which.

Fili’s words are still ringing in his ears, but they fall away like water off a duck’s back, unable to reach him. Of course he blames himself. How can he not? There are a million things Frerin could have done differently that day, that would have changed the outcome, that would have prevented what happened, and then it would be Tóki sitting here in this cave to comfort his sons, and not a broken Dwarf who is not even able to look after _himself_. 

Beside him, Fili is using all his might to try to stay awake, Frerin can clearly see it. His nephew blinks rapidly, jerks every time his lids have betrayed him again, but eventually he yields and ceases to fight against the exhaustion. With a a dull thud his head sags back against the barren cave wall, motionless, asleep. 

And once Fili is asleep, nothing is able to wake him. Thorin is a light sleeper, able to fall asleep in every impossible position imaginable, but it takes only the slightest of movement and the quietest of sounds to rouse him again. It’s both a gift and a curse, something that he acquired over the years on the road. Fili and Kili have never known what it’s like to expect a surprise attack at night at every given moment. Kili especially sleeps like a rock, unstirred by anything going on around him. 

Watching them like this, it feels like they’re kids again, though Frerin knows they’re not. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that. They have grown so much in all of these years, in every sense of the word, and he’s still stuck, unable to move forwards, held back by the memory of the person he lost so long ago. 

But Thorin is not lost, Frerin reminds himself. Thorin can still be saved. 

In the distance, he can still hear the thunder rumble, and the steady dripping of the rain against the rocks is an almost calming presence in his ears as he combs through Kili’s messy hair with his fingers. He repeats the motion until the rise of Kili’s shoulders grows more even, and the heart in his own chest has calmed its violent pounding.

Then, he carefully untangles himself from his nephews and gets to his feet. He fastens his bow on his back and dares a final glance behind him. Kili’s head has fallen on his brother’s shoulder, and their eyes are still closed, their bodies peaceful and calm in sleep.

Frerin quickly sneaks past Bofur, waiting on the moment they toy-maker has dozed off for a second to slip away, and exists the cave, walking right into the storm.

##

 ** _B_** ilbo can’t sleep. He keeps tossing and turning, but the tableau of Thorin’s bright blue eyes and their strange momentary tenderness in the surrounding deluged is burned into the back of his lids, and he cannot bear it.

The cave is so crushingly silent. The longer the silence lasts, the more Bilbo realises that this has been a mistake. He shouldn’t even have come on this journey. He is a Baggins, not a Took, he doesn’t know what he was thinking. He keeps putting the company in danger, and now Thorin saved him and he... he—

Throughout their journey, Bilbo has had his fair share of weak moments in which he seriously considered the option of turning back. Back to the warm and comfortable covers of his own bed, to his cosy armchair, to the company of his books, the familiarity of his garden. But he knew that Thorin expected him to give up, and the stubborn Tookish side of him wanted nothing more than to prove him wrong.

 _And look where that got you_ , Bilbo thinks bitterly. 

It’s hard to believe that only mere hours ago, they had been laughing about table manners and courting traditions. It already seems like a lifetime ago. 

He sits up, exhaling a quick, sharp breath through his nose, and slightly lifts his head to dare a look into the direction where he thinks Frerin, Fili, and Kili to be.

“Oh no,” Bilbo breathes. “No, no, no, no, no.”

Fili and Kili are curled up together, their faces relaxed and free of their earlier worry and fear, their chest rising and falling in an even rhythm, peacefully sleeping. But Frerin is nowhere to be seen.

Bilbo frantically roams the cave, unavailingly hoping to catch sight of him somewhere else, perhaps taking watch, or talking to Balin, _anything_ , when deep in his heart he knows exactly where Frerin has gone off to.

Resolved, Bilbo quickly rolls up his sleeping cot. He gathers his belongings, grabs his walking stick and crosses the short distance to the exit of the cave on tip-toes, careful not to alarm any of the others.

“Where are you going?”

Bilbo stops and releases a deep breath. He sees no point in lying to Bofur. “I’m going to look for Thorin.”

“Alone?” Bofur gasps, springing to his feet. “Bilbo, the rain hasn’t cleared yet. And who knows what those Stone Giants are still up to. They could crush you with a mere flick of their hands.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Bilbo announces, sounding far more courageous than he’s feeling.

“We agreed on waiting till the sun is on the rise,” Bofur reminds him. “Or at least stay here until the storm outside has quietened enough to see where we’re going.”

“I know.”

“You really want to go out there?”

“Frerin is gone,” Bilbo says, pointing behind him. “He went after Thorin, you know he did.”

Bofur’s head jerks to where Fili and Kili are still sleeping soundly, and he quietly curses under his breath. “He must have slipped past me when I dozed off earlier.”  
With Bofur’s head turned on him, Bilbo seizes the chance and tries to brush past him.

“Bilbo, wait.”

“No, you don’t understand, I _have_ to go. All of this is my fault!” Bilbo says, his voice rising. He averts his gaze to look at the ground, and then adds, more quietly, “it’s my fault Thorin fell. I need to find them. Both of them.”

He feels Bofur’s heavy gaze on him, and out of the corners of his eyes Bilbo can see that his usually so bright features are solemn and serious, the ever-present cheeky glint in them gone for the moment.

“Bofur,” Bilbo says quietly, but determinedly. He raises his head again to look at Bofur through his lashes. “Please. I’ve made up my mind.”

“At least let me wake the others.”

Not trying to let his disappointment show, Bilbo clenches his jaw, while his fingers keep twiddling with the end of his walking stick. Another nervous habit of his. “The others? Why?”

Bofur’s lips quirk up into a familiar easy smile. “Because we are going with you, of course.”

Bilbo widens his eyes as he takes in the meaning of those words. His own cheeks rise to mirror Bofur’s smile, and the Dwarf opens his mouth again to say more, when he hesitates, drawing his eyebrows together in puzzlement. He points down at Bilbo’s belt with his finger. “What’s that?”

Bilbo follows his gaze downward to the blue light radiating from his belt— no, from his _sword_. 

_The blade is of Elvish make, which means it’ll grow blue when Orcs or Goblins are nearby._

When Bilbo looks up again, he sees his own horror reflected in Bofur’s eyes. They both give a startled yelp as the ground beneath them gives way, and before either of them knows what is happening or has the chance to give any form of warning, the whole company is falling, spiralling down through the air until the land on hard wood. They are surrounded by unnatural bright yellow light and there are loud, earsplitting shrieks all around them, giving them no chance to escape.

Goblin shrieks. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to you if you got the North&South reference, ha.


	6. Chapter 6

_**H**_ e is falling, his hands seeking aimlessly, trying to catch hold of any kind of support. His fingertips graze against the hard rock, scraping his skin. Everything is slippery and wet from the rain. He recalls the burglar’s eyes staring into his own, full of fear and worry, and so clear and distinct to him, even through the frenzy of the heavy downpour.

Then he hits the ground.

The drop hasn’t been too deep, all in all he couldn’t have been in the air for more than a few seconds. It is strange; the seeming certainty of his imminent death made it seem like an eternity.

A painful sensation spreads through his chest — terror. Thorin recognises the emotion immediately. It is not death itself that is terrifying to him, nor the prospect of it. Not anymore. He has seen too much of it in his long life to be afraid of dying. No, the the cause for the drumming rhythm of his heart beating against his ribs is the realisation that he wouldn’t have _minded_. 

Thorin has no death wish. There’s still so much left for him to do, to make right. But giving his life to save another? To die to save a life of innocence, a life that hasn’t been shaped and hardened by war, loss, and grief? 

No, Thorin wouldn’t have minded giving his own life to save that of Bilbo Baggins.

But by some miracle or fate — he does not know which — he is still alive. 

He sees that he’s fallen onto a narrow ledge, just below the path they were travelling on, perhaps a few meters down. The precipice seemed bottomless from up there. An illusion conjured up by the denseness of the clouds and the lashing rain, he supposes.

He tries to sit up, when he is greeted by a piercing pain in his right foot. He grunts, and his hand instinctively shoots down to inspect the damage. There is no certainty of how bad his injury really is, not while he’s still wearing his boots. Thorin goes on to examine the rest of his wounds, finding the skin on his hands peppered with bruises and little cuts from the sharp mountain wall, and, as far as he can tell, his ankle is at least sprained. Hopefully not broken.

Everything around him is still a foggy blur. He knows he must be close to the edge of the cliff, and there’s no sure way of knowing whether he’d survive another fall should he accidentally stumble over the brink.

Distant voices resound, or at least Thorin thinks they are voices. He quickly glances upwards, seeing nothing but white mist and the occasional flash of lightning. Perhaps his mind is simply playing tricks on him, but he has to be sure. The others are still up on the mountain path. He has to find them, before Frerin does something rash and foolish and tries looking for him instead of leading the company to the sheltered safety their lives rely upon. 

Which is _exactly_ the kind of folly his brother would attempt undertaking. Thorin hopes that Balin is still in his right mind to talk some sense into Frerin before any of them are crushed by the vicious Giants that have emerged from the rocks. 

Thorin forces himself to stand up, his knees feeling utterly weak underneath his weight, and he stumbles backwards against the wall. His foot is still throbbing, the pain sharp and hot. It has already begun to swell and now starts to feel too big for his boot, the skin pushing painfully against the leather. He won’t be able to put any weight on it. At least not any time soon. And hobbling along the narrow ledge when cannot even properly see where he’s going suddenly doesn’t seem like such a good idea anymore.

“ _Yi_ ,” Thorin grumbles. “Argh, _aklâf_.”

Spluttering some more curses, he sinks back down on the ground again and moves as close to the wall and as far from the edge of the rocks as possible. He feels nauseous, overwhelmed with that terrible feeling of helplessness and worry. His stomach turns. The taste of bile fills his mouth. For a long few moments he simply sits still, resting his exhausted body against the cool stone, breathing in and out, slowly and deeply, until the nausea finally subsides.

The moments turn into minutes, the minutes into an hour. The rain still has not stopped, and his sore foot has long become numb. Once, Thorin thinks he can hear someone calling his name, but when he lifts his head and looks around, there is no one to be seen. After that, he tries to be more alert. Moving is not option, not like this. If the others decide to come looking for him against all reason, he has to be ready for them. If not, he will wait until the rain clears and the sun has risen, at least then he’ll be able to properly see the path before him. 

Another hour passes. The exhausting he suppressed catches up with him, and his lids grow heavy, giving way to tiredness. He tries to fight it, unwilling to allow himself to fall asleep. He needs to stay awake... He needs to... Stay... Awake...

His eyes fall shut, his body subdues his own mind, and sleep carries him into dark and weary dreams.

“Thorin!”

Frerin’s voice. Thorin would know that voice anywhere. 

He does not wish to dream of his brother. Thorin’s dreams never end well for either of them.

“Thorin!” The voice grows nearer. “Thorin.” He can hear it wavering. “Thorin—” It cracks, until it’s nothing more than a brittle whisper. “Thorin, no. No, no... No! Please be sleeping, please be sleeping—”

This is... different. Is he the first to die this time? Or will he be kept alive long enough to be forced to watch his brother mourn? Will his nephews be there as well? His sister? They are, sometimes. But it does not matter, Thorin realises. This scenario may be new, but that does not mean that the dream won’t end the same, end like it always does. Thorin can’t watch his little brother die again, he _can’t_. He refuses to.

“No,” Thorin murmurs. He’s almost able to hear the screams. Azog’s hollow laugh threatens to fill his ears. He can almost smell the familiar coppery scent, smell the flames, the smoke— The stench of death will follow soon. It’s just a matter of seconds now. His throat tightens as dread surges within him. “No, not again.”

“Oh Mahal, you’re alive.” Frerin’s voice appears so real. So close... if only. “You scared me. You were so still, for a moment I thought—”

Thorin swears he can almost feel his brother’s breath on his face. This is a trick, it must be. Some feeble trick attempting to fool him into believing he is safe. “ _No_.”

“Hey! Thorin, wake up!” Frerin says. Trembling hands cup Thorin’s face, the skin calloused and hard. Archer hands. “ _Nadad_ , wake up, it’s me.”

Thorin tentatively opens one eye, squinting. Frerin is crouched at his side, his eyes red-rimmed, damp, swollen. His hands are still shaking, his bottom lip is quivering slightly. But then Frerin’s lips spread into a wide, relieved smile. 

“You are real,” Thorin grates. His throat still feels too tight.

Frerin lets go of Thorin’s face. He sniffs, quickly wiping the unshed tears away. “Did you hit your head when you fell? Of course I’m real.”

Thorin coughs. “You should not have come.”

Frerin dismissively raises an eyebrow at him. “Can you walk?”

“If I could, do you think I would have decided to take a nap on the narrowest ledge I was able to find?”

Frerin stares at him for a long silent moment. “You’re angry.”

“Yes, I am angry, Frerin,” Thorin returns, keeping his voice levelled and calm. “You should not have come looking for me. You should have led the company in my stead. To _safety_. Not to foolish danger like this.”

“I came alone.”

Thorin closes his open mouth again, swallowing down further protest. “And the others?”

Frerin looks away, evading Thorin’s gaze. “Sleeping safe and sound in one of the mountain caves.”

“And they just let you go?” Thorin asks, though he already knows the answer. “Frerin?”

“They do not know I’m here,” Frerin replies quietly, in the same tone he always used when he was a child and in hope of escaping imminent scolding. 

Thorin gives a sigh. “I firmly hope that Fili and Kili have more sense than you and do not decide to come looking for us.”

“They won’t have to,” Frerin says quickly. “If we’re lucky, they do not even know I’ve left. We have to hurry and go back to them. You and I, come on.”

His brother gets up and extends his hand, motioning Thorin to reach for it.

“My ankle...” Thorin grimaces and indicates to his swollen foot. “I surmise it is sprained. I don’t believe I can walk.”

Frerin forms a light smile. “No worry, I can carry you.” He crouches down again and reaches underneath Thorin’s arm, steadying him. He shoots a worried glance to his right, locking Thorin’s eyes with his own. “All right?”

“I can manage,” Thorin replies, gritting his teeth to repress the outcry threatening to escape his mouth. His injured ankle hovers above the ground, forcing him to shift his entire weight onto his other foot. 

Frerin nods. “Tell me if you need a break.”

Thorin does not intend to make any breaks. Most certainly not to ease his own pain. Not when his nephews and the company are on their own. It’s not that he isn’t confident in the belief that Fili will lead them in his uncles’ absence. No, quite on the contrary, Thorin has complete and utter faith in his eldest nephew. Whatever comes, Fili will make the right decision for the company’s well-being. But still, a nagging feeling Thorin’s gut tells him that something is wrong. The caves in these mountains are seldom unoccupied, what if...? No. He should not think like that. They are safe. They have to be.

Frerin and Thorin have been walking, or hobbling in Thorin’s case, for a good long while now. The rains has finally stopped, but the sky is still cloaked in darkness, their path only lit by the brightness of the moon. Uncommon for him, Frerin has kept firmly silent, only turning his head with a concern when a grunt of pain leaves Thorin’s lips one time. He studies Thorin’s face for a long moment, and then sets his eyes back on the way before them. 

Having grown so accustomed to the quietude, Thorin almost jolts at the sudden snort erupting from the back of Frerin’s throat. It takes him a while, but then he realises that the strange strangled noise had meant to be a _laugh_.  

“Are you certain that _you_ did not hit your head when you came looking for me?” Thorin asks, eyebrows arched with disbelief. 

“I’m sorry,” Frerin says, looking not the least apologetic. The corners of his mouth twitch. “I just... I can’t believe you almost _died_ saving that Hobbit you apparently find so burdensome. _Again_.”

Thorin quickly looks away again, blood rushing to his face. “Shut up.”

“You’re blushing.”

“No, I am not.”

“You are,” Frerin persists, and Thorin is able to hear the smug smirk in his voice. “I was right, wasn’t I? You do like him.”

Thorin still does not dare to meet Frerin’s eyes. His cheeks feel too hot.

“Silence. All right.” Frerin is quiet for a long moment, and Thorin almost dares to believe that he’s given up this juvenile game, when his brothers speaks up yet again. “So you do not like him?”

“No.”

“No, you do like him, or no, you do not like him?” Frerin teases. “You’re not very articulate in your manner of speaking, I’m afraid.”

Thorin groans. “I do not fancy the Hobbit, Frerin, stop pestering me about it. I have more important matters on my mind.”

Frerin gives another short laugh, sounding way too triumphant to Thorin’s taste. “I never said anything about fancying him. Those are your words, not mine.”

Thorin presses his mouth into a thin line, deciding to ignore Frerin’s jest, hoping there won’t be any further remarks on this particular matter. It’s already too confusing to him as it is, the last thing he needs is his brother to unnecessarily meddle. 

Carefully avoiding the gaps and the cracks in the stone, Thorin and Frerin continue following the narrow path, thankfully in silence. They keep walking for what seems like hours to Thorin, until the solemn rocky landscape slowly being to dissolve into woodland. Thorin comes to a halt when catches sight of pine trees towering high in the sky, dry grass covering the ground below, and, bless Mahal, blazing sunlight. 

No, not sunlight. The sun has only just begun to rise, and the sky is still too dark for dawn. 

Fire. The ground is on fire. 

Thorin almost stumbles backwards, but Frerin catches him in the last second. “Easy there.” His brother tears his eyes away from the flames and leads Thorin to one of the trees. “Here, lean against it. Sit down if you need to.”

“What are you going to do?” Thorin asks, his voice coated with uncertainty. 

“I’ll go and see what’s happening down there.”

“You are not going alone.”

“Thorin, you know it’s only logical if I go alone. You’re injured, and that means you’re slow, and I can’t be held back by my worry for you—”

Frerin’s head abruptly spins round, and Thorin mirrors the movement, his hand instinctively reaching for Orcrist’s handle. Screams resound. Yells. Warg snarls. A sinister laugh. 

 _The_ laugh. The laugh from his nightmares, there is no sound like it. Frerin reacted the same time he did, so he’s heard it too. It must be real. But it cannot—

“No,” Thorin breathes. He feels deprived of all oxygen, of all coherent thoughts. This isn’t possible. Azog is dead. He is _dead_ , Thorin severed the Orc’s accursed arm from his torso, watched the Orcs drag his mutilated body back whence they had came. The Defiler died. He was sure of it.

Thorin snaps his eyes shut, pressing them so tightly that it’s almost painful. When he opens them again, Azog is still there. 

There’s no waking up from this. He can’t escape. It’s not a dream. 

“No, it cannot be,” Thorin whispers again, shaking his head.

His sprained ankle forgotten, Thorin’s legs start moving. His head is empty except for the need for revenge. White, hot rage soars within him. Azog needs to die, now, for good, this has to end. _He_ has to end it. 

“Thorin, no! Stop!” Frerin grabs him by the shoulders and yanks him back, forcefully pinning him against the tree. “Stop.”

“Let me go,” Thorin grinds out. His feet is throbbing again, but he cannot find it in him to care. He tries to wriggle out of Frerin’s grip, but his brother’s nails are digging painfully into his upper arms, leaving him no choice but to stay exactly where he is.

“Stop and listen to me. You’ll die. Thorin, if you face Azog like this, you’ll die,” Frerin says, drawing out every syllable. His eyes convey urgency, and his hold doesn’t loosen, not one inch. “You are hurt. You can’t walk. Not properly at least. Azog would take you apart in seconds, and you know it. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

“He killed _sigin'adad_ ,” Thorin hisses. “You were there. You saw it, Frerin. I cannot let him walk free. Not again. It is my mistake to fix.”

“You’re not listening to me,” Frerin says, a strange determined smile appearing on his features. “Of course we will not let him walk free.”

Thorin’s breathing grows unbearably heavy. His head is spinning. “I do not understand.”

Frerin finally releases him, though his eyes do not let go of their imperativeness. “You’ll stay here and _wait_. I’ve got this, Thorin. The piece of scum will die tonight, I will make sure of that.”

“Frerin—” Thorin tries, but his brother gives him a sharp look.

“Trust me. Please, Thorin, just this once?”

The tension in Thorin’s shoulders goes slack and he slowly inclines his head.

Frerin’s lips twist into a quick smile, a gesture he surely means to be encouraging. All Thorin can think about is the last time they separated in battle, when he was the one to tell his brother to wait, when he was the one to find Frerin’s motionless body on the rocks of Dimrill Dale. 

He watches Frerin draw an arrow out of his quiver and reach for his bow, advancing on tip toes, his footsteps quiet and precise. Thorin releases a deep breath. Frerin is a trained warrior. And he is right, Thorin would only hold him back. Still, it doesn’t mean that he likes having to stay back and watch. Thorin’s supposed to be with him, fighting by his side. 

He thinks he can see silhouettes in the trees on the edge of the cliff, but he has to get a better view to make sure. Thorin limps to the next tree in front of him, slumping against it. He wraps his arms around the bark to steady himself. He’s still not close enough to see. Clenching his jaw, he takes another step until he reaches the next tree.

That’s when Frerin shoots his first arrow. Thorin hears Azog roar as it hits him right in his scarred chest, barely missing the heart. Frerin is already on the move again, drawing his bow once more. He shoots another arrow, but this time Azog knows he’s there and dodges it. It flies past him into the throat of the Orc behind the Defiler. The creature didn’t even have the chance to scream as it slides down its Warg and falls to the ground with a thud, dead. 

Azog whirls his mace, yelling in black speech. Thorin doesn’t understand a word of it, but the message is clear. He’s ordering them to kill. 

Frerin puts away his bow and draws his sword out of its sheath, taking up a battle stance. The Wargs and their rides come closer, surrounding his brother, encircling him. “Come on! What are you waiting for? Or are you all craven, you Orc filth?”

What in Durin’s name is he trying to do? Get himself killed? The odds already are against him as it is. Antagonising the Orc pack is not exactly the brightest solution. No, Frerin may be reckless and impulsive, but he’s not stupid. He’s drawing the Orcs’ attention away from something... From the figures in the trees?

A stick snaps, just behind him, and Thorin freezes on the spot. Someone is breathing heavily behind him. He turns around, expecting to find a wayward Orc attempting to make a quick kill, but he cannot see anyone. There’s no one there.

Thorin draws his eyebrows together, roaming the area with his eyes. He can no longer hear the panting. Perhaps he’s imagined it. He turns again, just in time to see a burning pine cone hit one of the Warg’s muzzle, making it whine. Thorin jerks his head to the side, shifting his attention to the silhouettes in the trees. He can see Dwalin. And there’s Balin, Dori, Gandalf... They are all up there in the trees, clutching the branches, while the flames blaze up high on the ground below them, the smoke certainly stealing their breath with each passing second. They keep throwing pine cones at the Orcs, but it’s no use. They’re devastatingly outmatched — in numbers and in strength. The savage growls of the Wargs echo through the woodland, the hopelessness of their situation almost crushingly transparent. 

He fixes his eyes back to ground to where Frerin is still keeping pack of Orcs at bay. Thorin watches how his brother buries his sword into each opponent’s torso that dares to approach him, one at a time, the metal of his weapon reflecting the violent flames surrounding them. Dark blood drips from the tip. Frerin forms a vicious sneer, just in time as Azog decides to surge forward. The other Orcs quickly follow suit, and together they charge at Frerin, weapons drawn, their forces bundled. His little brother does not stand a chance against them. Not against so many at once. 

Thorin can’t stand there and watch any longer, he has got to _do_ something. He cannot allow his nightmares to become reality, he would rather die. Clumsily dragging his injured foot behind him, he starts to limp forwards. Sharp pain shoots through his ankle, but he bites his bottom lip, forcing himself to keep moving forward. 

“ _No_!” 

The halfling’s voice. Thorin throws a glance over his shoulder, but again there is no one to be seen. Is his mind playing tricks on him now? Conjuring up the Hobbit’s voice inside of his head? Has he gone mad? It doesn’t matter. He has no time do dwell on such thoughts. He unleashes Orcrist, using the sword to steady himself. 

Frerin is utterly enclosed. But he still moves faster than Thorin has ever seen him before. Black blood spatters across his face and his armour, his teeth are gritted, his eyes disturbingly empty except for the reflection of the fire. 

Thorin loses him balance. He stumbles, tripping over his own wounded foot, no longer in control of his own body. Before he can stop it, a grunt escapes his throat. Azog whirls around, finally becoming aware of Thorin’s presence.

“No! What are you doing?” Frerin screams at him, his eyes wide. “Damn it, I told you to wait!” He darts forward into the direction where Thorin is using all his might to rise from the ground, but one of the Orc spurts in Frerin’s way, cutting him off. 

Azog’s attention is solely focused on Thorin. He mutters something, pointing at him with his mace. When Thorin hears his father’s name coming out of the Orc’s mouth, his stomach drops. Then the Defiler smiles, the expression humourless and vile. Thorin is back on his feet, walking towards the Orc, charging at him in the only pace he can manage, while Azog simply waits for him, arms wide open, the sneer never leaving his ugly features. 

For a moment Thorin is back in Azanulbizar, facing the Defiler on his own with nothing but his oaken branch as his shield. His Grandfather’s severed head, his father’s yells, Frerin’s cold body in his arms, his hair sticky with blood... Thorin forces the images away. 

“Thorin, get back! Stop!” Frerin’s frantic yells have turned into begging, his voice growing thin and brittle. “Please, Thorin, get back, get back, _please_ —”

His brother slashes at the Orc before him, killing it with one single blow to the throat. He runs forwards, making another attempt at reaching Thorin, but a Warg tackles him, pinning him against one of the trees. Frerin groans in pain. Thorin can see the dampness on his face. The fear in his eyes. Thorin tears his eyes away to look back at Azog.

He holds Orcrist in front of him, a feeble attempt at trying to lunge at the Orc. He only needs to draw the attention away from Frerin, at least long enough until the others are able to escape from the trees. If he can inflict pain on the Defiler in the process, only the better. Thorin hauls off, gripping the handle tightly, and makes ready to strike, the growing weakness in his muscles forcing him to use both of his arms. 

Strangely, he first _hears_ the smack as Azog’s mace makes contact with the fragile flesh on his face, the sound sickening and wet. The pain follows only a second later. For a moment, he can see nothing but darkness. 

“No!” Frerin yells, his voice raw. There’s another clash of swords. A Warg whine.

“Thorin!” That’s Dwalin, his shout laced with agony.

He thinks he can hear Fili as well, or maybe it’s Kili. The sound barely comes through, his mind struggling to distinguish the clatter of yells. Thorin’s eyes flutter open, a groan leaving his lips. The noise is sluggish and muffled in his ears. His tongue is numb in his mouth, and his vision blurs as burning pain washes over his body. He grimaces, trying to not let it overtake him. Sweat drops down his brow, making his eyes sting. He wipes it away and gets up again, his knees buckling underneath his weight.

Azog prepares for another charge. The second blow is just as forceful as the first, flinging Thorin’s body to the ground. He tries to move, get up, to _fight_ , but his body refuses to obey. His advances find no avail. He’s grown too weak, too frail. He stays down, utterly vulnerable and defenceless. He has lost. 

Azog says something to one of the other Orcs. A command. 

He hears footsteps. The world turns black at the edges of his vision. Frerin is still yelling, half crying, far away from him. 

Thorin is dimly aware of the Orc raising his weapon, ready to make to final strike to take Thorin’s head and end his life. He braces himself. 

The blow never comes.

There’s a loud yell, as something, _someone_ jumps on top of the Orc, successfully flinging it away from him. Thorin blinks. He sees a flash of blue. Brown curls. A red coat.

_Bilbo._

Thorin blinks again, slowly.

The Hobbit has fallen to the ground, Azog’s white Warg towering on top of him, growling. Bilbo has his sword raised, jabbing at the beast, slashing at it, not willing to go down without a fight. A deep cut appears at the Warg’s throat, painting the lucid fur red. The Hobbit turns, tries to crawl away, tries to get back on his feet—

Then the Warg sinks his sharp teeth into the halfling’s torso, shakes the small body and tosses it away as if Bilbo weighed nothing at all. 

It’s the last thing Thorin sees before he closes his eyes. After that, he doesn’t find the strength to open them again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yi’ = Expression of annoyance  
> Aklâf = Damn  
> Sigin'adad = Grandfather


	7. Chapter 7

_**T**_ horin cannot seem to keep his eyes off the still figure that's lying on top of several sleeping rolls provided by some members of the company, all of them eager to help in any way they can. Bilbo’s face is painted unnaturally pale, the sweat glistening on his brow. His left upper arm is covered in bandages, hiding the wound Azog’s white Warg has left him with. 

Once in a while he stirs, giving a quiet moan, and every time Thorin shifts on his uncomfortable crouched position on the ground next the Hobbit’s cot and curls his fingers into a fist, his body rigid with tautness.

“Is he...?” Thorin starts, failing to hide the uncertain waver in his voice.

“Sleeping?” Frerin prompts. “Yes. He passed out from the shock. Or from the pain. I suppose he’s never had an injury like this, so the pain must feel unbearable to him. Perhaps it’s a good thing that he’s asleep, at least until Ori is back from picking up the herbs Oin needs to treat him with.”

Thorin’s lips are still sealed firmly shut. His face is guarded, revealing Frerin nothing about what his brother is thinking right now. 

“At least the wound has stopped bleeding fairly quickly,” Frerin says in attempt to put Thorin’s mind at ease. “Oin said the fangs missed anything vital. Bilbo won't be able to use his left arm for a good long while, but he'll be fine. It looks worse than it is. He was lucky.”

“Lucky.” Thorin repeats it, the word nothing more than a scoff. “He nearly got himself killed.”

Frerin doesn’t know what to say to that. Thorin is right, saving him nearly cost the halfling his life. Still, jumping on that Orc and facing down Azog all on his own has been one of the bravest things he’s ever seen, Frerin has to admit. Incredibly stupid and entirely reckless, but brave nevertheless. And if he hadn’t done it, Thorin wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t be sitting beside him, alive, mostly unharmed. That fact alone makes it hard to be angry at the halfling’s recklessness. 

Thorin’s eyes remain fixed upon the Hobbit as he says, more quietly, “Did I not say that he would be a burden? That he would not survive in the wild?”

Frerin throws him a puzzled look. “Don’t tell me that after _everything_ you still don’t accept him as part of the group? He threw himself in front of an Orc for you! In front of _Azog,_ for Durin’s sake!”

“I was wrong.”

“Bofur said he even wanted to take off on his own to go look for us after you—” Frerin stops short. Blinks. “What?”

“I was wrong,” Thorin repeats. A humourless smile forms on his lips, and he shakes his head, tearing his eyes away from Bilbo to look at the ground. “I have never been so wrong in all my life. I shouldn’t have doubted him.”

“Because he saved your life?”

“No,” Thorin replies. “Well, yes, but that is not the only reason.”

“What else changed your mind then?”

“Dwalin told me that they lost him in the Goblin caves,” Thorin explains. “Even after they escaped they could not find a trace of him. He was not with the others when the Orcs attacked.”

It finally dawns on him then. “And he came back.”

Thorin gives a nod, finally turning to look back at Frerin. “He could have turned back. But he didn’t. He chose the quest over the prospect of going back home, back to safety. All this time I believed he was only waiting for the opportunity to leave the company. I never thought...” Thorin sucks in a sharp breath, and for a the fraction of a second Frerin thinks he can see tears glistening in his brother’s eyes, but when he blinks the illusion is gone again.

“I see now that he lacks neither loyalty nor courage,” Thorin continues. “He faced Azog and killed the Defiler’s Warg, despite his lack of experience in battle. I underestimated him. I must apologise for treating him so ill.”

“And you will be able to,” Frerin assures him. “Stop looking at him as if he could die any minute. He’s going to be fine, Thorin. He just needs some rest.” He puts a hand on Thorin’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. “As do you.”

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t be a fool. You fell down a cliff, _nadad_. And you took a mace to the head. Twice. I don’t know what kind of magic Gandalf performed on you to make you wake up again, but you are certainly far from being fine. Maybe you should let Oin take a look at your wounds as well, hm?”

“I sent Nori out to see if Azog is still on our trail,” Thorin interjects suddenly. “We need to prepared. He will try to hunt us down, sure as death.”

Frerin sighs. “Don’t try to change the topic, Thorin.”

“Do you not wonder?” Thorin asks, his voice agitated, insistent. “How he could have survived the battle? After all these years of silence that piece of filth has come back to haunt us once more.”

“Of course I do,” Frerin admits. “I thought we were rid of him once and for all. But it was a messy battle. There were corpses on that battleground that sure looked like they were dead, but were still drawing breath. I know that better than anyone. They said Father died there, and you’ve never believed it for a second, have you?”

The answer comes unflinchingly. “But you have.”

Not this again. “You searched every single corpse in Moria,” Frerin replies, more sharply than he intends to. “You were on that battlefield for hours and you did not find him. He’s gone, Thorin.”

 _Perhaps you didn’t find him because there was nothing left to find — or whatever was left of him after the Orcs were finished mutilating his corpse was scattered around the battlefield, the limbs and parts hidden underneath dead Dwarves and Orcs alike._ Frerin thinks the words, but he doesn’t say them. There’s no need to paint that picture into Thorin’s head, not when there’s no certainty of what really happened to their Father that day. Sometimes he prefers uncertainty. Sometimes it’s better not knowing. 

“That doesn’t mean he’s dead,” Thorin persists. “Perhaps he was taken.”

“ _Taken_? Are you listening to yourself? And we still haven’t heard anything, no ransom, nothing, for more than 140 years?”

Thorin opens his mouth, but whatever he’s choosing to say next, Frerin is sure he’s already heard that argument that’s supposed to explain Thrain’s longtime absence. And the next one. And the one after that. They’ve been over this too many times already, and they never manage to change each other’s minds over the matter. 

“Can we please for once not argue?” Frerin rubs his eyes, releasing a deep exhale. “Today I just want to be content with the fact that you’re here, that you’re alive. That we are _all_ alive. Mahal knows I had my doubts about that when you started charging at Azog like an utter _lulkhel_.”

“Oh, I’m a _lulkhel_?” Thorin challenges. The abrasiveness has ebbed, instead his tone has grown teasing, and Frerin recognises the smile in Thorin’s eyes. “Which one of us thought he could actually take on an entire pack of Orcs all on his own?”

“They were _this_ close to admitting their imminent defeat. You shouldn’t have barged in to take all the glory for yourself,” Frerin returns wryly, directing a grin at Thorin. As if his brother would ever do anything for the sake of glory. “Or were you simply trying to impress the Hobbit? Oh wait, I forgot, you didn’t even know he was there.”

Thorin’s forehead wrinkles, as if he’s just remembered something, but before he has the chance to speak, he’s interrupted by a quiet moan, and following it one single word, spoken brittle and weak, yet so utterly relieved, so heartfelt and _glad_ that the Hobbit might as well have been shouting directly into their ears.

“Thorin?”

Looking first at the halfling, Frerin shifts his gaze back to his brother. The look he finds on Thorin’s face challenges the one he had when catching sight of the weak silhouette of the Lonely Mountain, right after the Eagles had arrived at the last possible moment and carried them to the Carrock and to safety. Pure astonishment, mingled with relief and something Frerin still can’t put his finger on. He’d call it admiration, but for some reason the word doesn’t feel strong enough for the way Thorin immediately shuffles even closer to the Hobbit, puts a hand on his uninjured shoulder, smiles down at him. 

“You’re alive,” the halfling grates, his voice rough and uneven.

Thorin inclines his head, and now even Bilbo starts smiling. Seeing the way Thorin’s thumb keeps stroking over Bilbo’s upper arm, entirely too reluctant to even think about letting go, Frerin suddenly feels like he’s interrupting a very private moment. 

“I am sorry I doubted you,” Thorin says earnestly.

“No,” Bilbo replies, shaking his head. He coughs, once, twice, and the next words immediately sound much clearer. “No, you were right. I would have doubted me too. I’m not a hero, or a warrior. Not even a burglar,” he adds, finally acknowledging Frerin’s presence by throwing him a wry glance. 

Frerin smiles in return, only realising just now how glad he actually is that Bilbo came out of that fight mostly unscathed. All of his concern have mostly been directed at Thorin’s safety. But what if Bilbo hadn’t survived facing Azog? Frerin pushes the thought away, unwilling to even imagine such an outcome. 

“Azog would speak differently on the matter, I would think,” Frerin tells him. “You slayed his precious little Warg.”

“I killed it?”

“Aye, you did,” Thorin confirms. “It was a brave deed.”

“Not a letter opener after all, it seems,” Bilbo says dryly. He attempts to sit up, winces. 

“You should rest,” Thorin says gently. 

“I don’t think resting is going to be much of an option,” Bilbo replies, looking past Thorin. 

Frerin follows his gaze, catching sight of a horde of Dwarves making their way from the camp towards them.

Thorin throws Bilbo a glance, wordlessly asking if it’s all right with him, and Bilbo nods in return. Finally releasing his hold on the Hobbit’s shoulder, Thorin gets on his feet, giving space for the others to surround Bilbo, bombarding him with well wishes, telling him how glad and relieved they are that he’s alive. 

“Bilbo Baggins, Wargslayer,” Kili booms, and Bilbo only snorts in return. 

“It was well done,” Gloin agrees. 

“To think that we thought we had lost you,” Bofur chimes in.

“Speaking of which — how on earth did you get past the Goblins?” 

“How indeed...?” Dwalin mutters, as sceptical as ever.

Frerin gets up as well, deciding to leave them be and to join Thorin in his discussion with the now returned Nori. By the way Thorin’s frown keeps getting darker and darker with each word coming out of Nori’s mouth, the news cannot be good. Azog must be closer than anticipated. Gandalf towers behind them, supplying some information of his own, which Frerin is sure the Wizard has known all along, but has just now decided to reveal to Thorin. 

With a sigh, Frerin quickens his pace, when he’s held back by a grab of his arm. He turns, sees that it’s Fili who’s stopped him. His nephew’s uncommonly stormy expression strangely reminds him of Dis, making Frerin swallow with apprehension. 

The flash of anger quickly subsides, and now Fili’s eyes show something much worse. Disappointment. He can handle rage. Rage is easy. But the way Fili is looking at him at this moment makes Frerin’s heart drop. He doesn’t know how to make this right. If there _is_ any way to make it right.

“I understand why you did what you did,” Fili explains without preamble. “I only wish you wouldn’t have lied to me.”

Frerin follows his nephew’s lead, not wasting time with any half-measured excuses. “If I hadn’t, would you have let me go?”

Fili considers it for a moment. “No, probably not.”

“I am sorry, but then I’m glad I did it. Thorin’s life depended on it. I had to find him."

"But—"

"Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same for Kili," Frerin interrupts him. He knows it's a low move involving Kili in this, but it's the only way to make Fili fully and truly understand. "If _he_ would have fallen down that slope and you didn't know whether he was dead or alive. You would have gone after him just the same, you know you would have.”

Fili’s stare softens. “That does not make it right.”

“I know it doesn’t,” Frerin says. “And I am sorry for lying to you. I truly am. But given the choice, I’d still do it again. It doesn’t matter if it’s Thorin, or you, or Kili, or Dis. I would have gone out into the storm all the same, even if I had to lie to someone whose trust I don’t deserve. I still would have faced all of those Orcs on my own without a chance of success. I didn’t care about the odds, and I still don’t. There’s nothing more important to me than this family, do you understand? _Nothing_.”

 _And certainly not my own life_ , he adds silently. 

Fili visibly swallows, staring at him for several long moments. Then he nods. “Next time if something like that comes up... Take me with you.”

Frerin opens his mouth, readying himself to protest, to tell Fili that he’s promised Dis to look after them, that he would never risk their life like that. But Fili keeps his eyes locked with Frerin’s own, unyielding, resolute. 

Frerin takes a step closer, pressing a gentle hand onto his eldest nephew’s shoulder. “All right. I will. I promise.”

“Keep it this time?”

Frerin nods, giving Fili’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “I won’t disappoint you again.”

He’s glad to see Fili’s lips curve at one corner. He drops his hand, and when he throws a glance into the direction of the pile of Dwarves huddled around Bilbo, he can see Kili watching them, a relieved smile on his face. 

“We need to move.” Thorin suddenly appears beside them, his face twisted into a frown. “Now.”

That can only mean one thing. “Is he here? How close?”

“Too close. We need to be fast.”

“What about Bilbo?” Fili wants to know.

Frerin glances at Thorin, wondering the same thing.

“He’ll have to run.”

“He can’t run,” Frerin says, incredulously, “he’s almost been mauled to death by a bloody Warg—”

“I will steady him, if necessary,” Thorin says quickly. “And make sure that he will not get left behind. Gandalf said something about a house being nearby. As usual, he didn’t care to elaborate, but we have no other choice but to listen to his advice.”

“Steady him?” Frerin echoes. “ _You_? Your ankle is hurt, you’re barely even able to run yourself, even without having another load of body weight dumped upon your shoulder.”

“Do you have any other plan?” Thorin snaps. 

Frerin takes a moment to think. “As a matter of fact, yes. I do.”

After he’s done explaining, Thorin looks at him as if Frerin just suggested inviting the Defiler over for a cup of tea and some cake to negotiate for peace.

“No.”

“It’s the only way we all get out of this,” Frerin persists, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at Thorin’s utter stubbornness in the worst moment possible. “You said it yourself, there’s no time! You have to go and hide. _Now_. Otherwise you’ll both slow us down.” The certainty in Thorin’s eyes already wavers, and Frerin takes this chance to add, “If you don’t want to do it for your own sake, then at least to do it for Bilbo.”

Thorin’s eyes flicker briefly to where the Hobbit is forcing himself into a standing position with the help of Oin and the now returned Ori. 

“It’s a good plan,” Dwalin says. “It’s still dark enough to find the needed cover between the trees.”

“We’ll simply outrun them,” Kili adds. “It’s a perfect distraction. I don’t think Orcs are able to count to twelve.”

“And it gives your injuries some time to get better,” Fili points out.

“How will we be able to find you later?” Thorin asks, defeated. 

“Beorn’s lodgings are not far from here,” Gandalf answers, coming to join the discussion. “His house is easy to find.”

During the time it takes the Wizard to briefly explain the details of the path to Thorin, the others have already gathered all their gear together, ready to bolt. 

Frerin lingers at Thorin’s side for a moment longer. “Think you’ll find it? I know Gandalf said it would be easy to find, but if memory serves me right he also said the same thing about Bag End. If there was any time, I’d make him draw you a map.”

Thorin scoffs, but his lips twitch. “We’ll manage.”

“All right then. Meet you there, _nadad_.” He gives Thorin a last smile and begins to turn. “Oh, and don’t seduce the Hobbit while the two of you are all alone out there in the woods, having to share body heat in the cold nights—”

“Just go.”

Frerin laughs, spins around and joins the company in their flight as Thorin and Bilbo hobble into the safe covers of the forest as quickly as their injuries allow. 

##

 _ **B**_ ilbo wakes with a jolt and flinches at the sudden pain shooting through his upper arm. Slowly, he turns his head to the side, staring right into the worry-filled eyes of Thorin Oakenshield. 

 _Oh, right_ , Bilbo thinks as the memory comes back to him. 

“How long was I out?” Bilbo asks, taking in the rosy hue of the setting sun through the crowns of the trees around them. 

“A couple of hours. You said you intended to rest your eyes for a bit and the next thing I knew you were already snoring, fast asleep.”

“ _Pff_ ,” Bilbo huffs out. “I most certainly do _not_ snore.”

Thorin raises his eyebrows. “How would you know?” 

Prepared to argue, Bilbo narrows his eyes at Thorin, trying to search for a flaw in his logic and finding none. 

Thorin shuffles closer to him, gesturing to Bilbo’s arm with a quick jerk of his head. “I need to change your bandages.”

Bilbo tries to keep as still as possible as Thorin’s steady hands start cleaning the wound before he applies some herbs on the injured skin, careful and knowing. The dark eyebrows are drawn together in concentration, and Bilbo can’t help but think how terribly grumpy Thorin looks when he’s focused. 

He can’t suppress a smile, and the next thing he knows one of Thorin’s hand shoots up to lie on his forehead. The smile dies on Bilbo’s lips and he’s sure his heart just skipped a beat. 

“What are you doing?” he asks with a voice he doesn’t recognise as his own. 

“Checking for a fever.” The hand leaves his brow, and Bilbo resumes breathing. “Does the wound feel warm?”

“Not particularly, no.”

Thorin gives a knowing nod. “There is no swelling around the bite either. It is a good sign. It means it’s not infected.”

“You’ve done this before.“

Thorin is quiet as he wraps fresh bandages around Bilbo’s upper arm, the expression on his face unreadable. He keeps his eyes fixed on his hands when he finally says, “My mother was a physician.”

 _Was_. Bilbo looks at him, silently waiting for him to continue.

“I do not know much of it,” Thorin tells him, still not looking up. “There were more important matters to learn. But she took me with her sometimes. Explained some of it to me." A distant smile begins to dance on his lips. "Frerin was too impatient to sit still and listen, and Dis still too young to understand. But my mother, she insisted that at least one of us should know how to treat someone's wounds in battle. It is what she valued most — her ability to help others.”

Something flashes across Thorin’s face at his last words, hardening his features, and though Bilbo is curious to know more about Thorin’s family and past and his tongue is itching to form more questions, he doesn’t pry any further. He can see on the guarded expression on Thorin’s face that it wouldn’t be of any use anyway. 

With autumn approaching, the sun quickens its pace as it disappears on the faraway horizon. Before they know it, it is already gone, painting the forest around them black. They do not dare to make a fire in case Azog does realize that two of the group are missing and sends Orcs out to look for them. 

The night air is cold, but despite having slept all day, Bilbo is already too tired to care. He wraps the blanket tighter around his body, vaguely seeing Thorin’s broad silhouette sit down a few meters away from him. “You know, you don’t have to keep watch. Though I also doubt you’d see anyone approaching in this pitch black anyway, my sword will warn us if Orcs or Goblins come near us.”

He hears some leaves rustling, heavy footsteps, then a dull thud as Thorin makes up his cot next to Bilbo’s. Despite knowing that Thorin isn’t able to see his face, Bilbo tries to cover up the surprise forming on his features as he realises just how quick Thorin has accepted to trust Bilbo’s judgment. He swallows and turns to lie on his right side, quickly closing his eyes again.

When he wakes, it’s to the distant sound of bird song. Above him the sky is filled with the faint light sunrise, carrying the prospect of the still-far-away dawn. He throws a glance to his right, sees that Thorin is still sleeping, tough it’s too dark to properly make out the Dwarf’s features.

Bilbo lets his head sag back into his sleeping roll, releasing a deep breath as he’s becoming conscious of how _rested_ he feels. More rested than he has in weeks. He can still perceive a little sting of pain when he moves his arm, but he’s already feeling so much better than yesterday. Must be the herbs. Or the excessive amount of sleep he’s had these last two days. They should be able to catch up with the others soon enough.

Bilbo contemplates getting up, perhaps eating some breakfast. While his mind is already busy frying bacon and eggs he doesn’t have, his gaze wanders back to Thorin’s stirless body at his side. Bilbo bites his cheek, deciding that breakfast can wait. Now that Thorin’s finally allowed himself to rest, the last thing Bilbo wants is to wake the Dwarven leader with any loud noise preparing food may cause.

Instead, he remains lying on his sleeping roll, and, knowing that it’s probably one of the rare times he’ll actually be able to enjoy some quietude all for himself, Bilbo takes the time to take in the utter calmness of the scenery around him. It’s strange how gloomy this forest can feel, and how beautiful at the same time. If he listens closely, Bilbo can hear the branches rustling softly in the mild autumn wind. The forest is in the process of waking — the birds perching in the trees, a squirrel scurrying up the bark carrying an acorn, the bees buzzing around the wild flower buds. The ground is muddy and soft from the morning dew, and Bilbo breathes in the heavy scent of earth and is immediately reminded of his garden in Bag End. 

For the first time on this journey the memories don’t bring along the dreadfulness of homesickness; instead a warm feeling spreads through his belly and a smile forms on his lips. He knows he’ll get back home someday and he’s glad for it. But now he’s here, lying underneath the open sky, in a moment that seems timeless, frozen, untainted. Right now, there’s no place he’d rather be.

Without meaning to or really knowing why, his hand slowly makes its way towards his coat pocket, drawn to the touch of cool metal against his skin. His hand closes around the small piece of jewellery, the mere contact stirring something within him. He hasn’t had the time to take a closer look at the ring he took from that creature in the Goblin tunnels, and now that he’s alone, without anyone's prying looks... He’s quickly discarded telling the rest of the company of his find, and even now Bilbo finds himself strangely reluctant to share it with anyone, even with Thorin. Not yet. No. No, for now this... this is his own secret to keep. 

It happens slowly, gradually. Nothing changes, not really. But at the same time everything does.

Faraway, the echo of a terrible wolf howl resounds. Around him, the rustling of the trees turns into cracking, the soft sound of the wind into wailing. The squirrel is gone, the bird song above him suddenly sounds like sinister laughing, directed at him, mocking him. Bit by bit, the forest is swallowed up by darkness, ominous and destructive. As if anything, and anything at all could be lurking in the thicket.

All of a sudden the calmness of the woods isn’t beautiful at all anymore — it’s terrifying. 

The hair on Bilbo’s arms stands up, and he twitches his nose, tries to remain calm, to stay reasonable. The urge to reach for his sword is overpowering, but there’s no sign of blue flashing at his side. They’re safe — from Goblins and Orcs at least.

The crying sound doesn’t stop. Bilbo looks around, almost frantically searching for the source. It’s a horrible sound, broken, and choppy and... and human.

“Thorin?”

Next to Bilbo, Thorin’s body is trembling, the face damp with sweat. Another terrible whimper leaves the Dwarf’s lips and Bilbo watches how Thorin’s fingernails dig into his palms, so hard that they cut into the skin. His face is twisted into a grimace, and so full of pain that Bilbo quickly shoves the now forgotten ring back into his pocket and rushes to close the short distance between them, gently grabbing Thorin by the shoulder.

“Thorin. Thorin. Shhh. Thorin, wake up.”

Thorin’s eyes flutter open in an instant and the Dwarf’s upper body darts up, so unexpectedly fast that Bilbo almost staggers backwards. The blue eyes are unfocused, searching, as if Thorin has no idea where he is or what is happening.

His large body still tremors with heavy breaths, the sound almost close to that of sobs, but not quite. Drops of sweat drip from the tip of Thorin’s nose and his hair is tousled and messy, with wayward strands sticking to his brow. 

He’s as undone as Bilbo has ever witnessed him in those months on the road together, and in an attempt to do or say _something_ , Bilbo opts for simply stating the obvious. “You were having a bad dream.”

Thorin refuses to look back at him. “It happens,” he says matter-of-factly, albeit still a bit breathlessly.

Bilbo tilts his head, studying Thorin. Worry fills his gut, and he tries to remember if he’s ever seen Thorin have a nightmare before. It doesn’t surprise him that Thorin does have them — of course he does, given all the things he had to endure. And now that Azog has come back...

He can feel Thorin grow uncomfortable under his gaze, and he tears his eyes away, unwittingly flexing his fingers at his side. 

“Your hands,” Thorin suddenly whispers. He leans forward, taking one of Bilbo’s hands in his. He gently turns it over, his other hand trailing along the cuts and scrapes on Bilbo’s knuckles.

Thorin’s hand are warm and still damp with remnants of sweat, abrasive against Bilbo’s own soft skin, but still strangely nice — and making him wonder why he was longing for the coolness of the ring just moments before. Thorin’s touch is as light as a breeze, careful not to hurt. 

Thorin frowns, eyes still fixed on the wounds on Bilbo’s hand. “Did this happen when you...?”

“No,” Bilbo croaks. He clears his throat, uncertain why it’s becoming so difficult to breathe. “No, no, that must have happened in the Goblin caves, when I— when I fell down. I didn’t even realize.”

Thorin looks up, not letting go of his hand. Bilbo’s eyes turn to the large gash on Thorin’s cheek. The rest of his skin is bruised and swollen, and though the stubborn Dwarf is doing his best to hide his limp, Bilbo knows that his foot is still hurting. Knows that Azog has returned from what they all thought to be certain death and that it has got to be eating Thorin up inside, so much that’s he’s just mere minutes ago been crying and having a nightmare so violent that he’s cut deep enough into the palms of his hands to draw _blood_. 

And still he’s sitting there in front of Bilbo — whose only injury is a bite wound of mediocre severity in the arm he doesn’t even need to fight with and some scraps he didn’t even _notice_ — the blue eyes so guilt-ridden and concerned and gentle and so terribly soft and—

“I thought you were dead,” Bilbo says sharply. He cannot prevent his voice from cracking as the last word leaves his lips. A strange surge of rage fills his gut, and he looks up directly into Thorin’s eyes, saying, more firmly now, “I thought you were dead and I thought it was my fault.”

Thorin’s face goes blank and his mouth falls agape in wonder, and Bilbo’s eyes dart to the Dwarf’s battered lips, staying there several seconds too long, and he instantly adds it to the long list of things he does but can’t grasp the reasons behind doing them.

There’s no irritation in the way Thorin looks at him. He doesn’t even seem taken aback by the anger that’s trembling in Bilbo’s voice. No, he almost seems... awed by it.

Before he has the chance to wonder about just when all of this has become so confusing, a thumb grazes over his wrist, making him freeze in place. Only now Bilbo becomes aware of his hand still trapped underneath Thorin’s, and instead of drawing away, he closes his eyes, loses himself in the steadiness of the motion, the gentleness of it. 

“I would not have been your fault,” Thorin says softly.

Bilbo swallows down the tightness in his throat, nods. He opens his eyes again, and all of a sudden he feels incredibly stupid for his outburst. What’s he crying about? Almost losing someone who isn’t his to lose to begin with? Thorin would have jumped down that mountain slope for anyone in the company — it’s who he is. No need to feel special for it.

He sees Thorin draw his brows together, looking at him with a puzzled expression. Bilbo sucks in a deep breath, blinking the unshed tears away, and offers what he hopes to be an assuring smile. “I’m sorry, it’s... I suppose I’m just tired. We should try going back to sleep. It’s still a few hours before sunlight.”

Thorin gives a nod. He keeps his gaze fixed on Bilbo for a brief moment longer, as if reluctant to let go. Then the weight of Thorin’s hand wrapped around his own vanishes.

Letting out a deep breath, Bilbo watches Thorin sink back down to the ground and sees him wince when the Dwarf accidentally puts too much weight on his injured ankle. 

Logic tells him that he should do the same, return to his own cot and get some rest they both need while there’s still time to do so. Or maybe take a walk to clear his head. But his eyes keep wandering back to the little cuts in Thorin’s open palms, to the still flushed face, to the closed eyes, and Bilbo quickly decides to brush logic aside. 

As quiet as possible, he pushes his sleeping roll so that it’s directly next to Thorin’s, with no space between them. He lies back down again, inching closer to the Dwarf until their shoulders are touching. When he falls asleep again, it’s with the scent of tobacco and sweat and the even rhythm of Thorin’s breathing at his side. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lulkhel = Idiot of all idiots
> 
> Random shoutout to Addi and Anaïs, simply for being amazing human beings. Special thanks to Addi again for beta-ing this thing. ♥


	8. Chapter 8

**_W_** hen Bilbo wakes up, the midday sun is high up in the sky. Rays of warm sunlight tickle his skin and shine directly into his eyes, making him squint. He turns his face away from light, just as his stomach starts to grumble. No wonder — he’s missed both first and second breakfast. Wondering if Thorin’s already awake, Bilbo rolls over onto his side and takes a look.

The Dwarf is as still as Bilbo’s ever seen him, showing no visible signs of the distressful night before. He’s radiating such an utter calmness that for a brief, terrifying second Bilbo suddenly becomes scared if Thorin is even breathing at all. He’s taken a mace to the face, twice. Head injuries have a habit of being unpredictable, haven’t they?

Now truly panicked, Bilbo shuffles a bit closer to Thorin, promptly seeing that the Dwarf’s chest is rising and falling in an even rhythm. Shaking his head at his own exorbitant worry, Bilbo lets his head sink back to the ground, letting out a relieved exhale.

Just in that moment Thorin happens to stir, turning from his back to his side, now directly facing Bilbo with their faces only inches apart. So close that he can feel Thorin’s breath on his own skin. He doesn’t think of moving away and putting more space between them. The idea doesn’t even occur to him. No, for a moment, Bilbo just stares.

He takes in all the little details of Thorin’s face, the small bumps of barely visible silver scars, the few patches of freckles on his cheeks and his brow. The curved shape of his nose, the delicate wrinkles around his eyes. Sunshine falls onto Thorin’s hair, highlighting the few strays of silver in it. There are even some spots of silver colour in his beard, Bilbo now notices for the very first time.

But even with those signs of age and worry being as pronounced and prominent as ever, Thorin doesn’t look old in this moment, not at all. There are no hard lines visible on his face, no wrinkles on his brow. The muscles around his mouth are relaxed, the lips parted and not pressed into a stern, thin line as they have a habit of being.

 _He looks young like this_ , Bilbo thinks. _Peaceful, really. And... and beautiful._

The realisation makes something in his chest flutter, and Bilbo firmly decides to ignore the sensation, seeing as he’s unable, or _unwilling_ to comprehend the cause of it anyway. Catching sight of a strain of hair that’s fallen over Thorin’s eyes, Bilbo has to hold onto every inch of self-control not do something as inexplicable as reaching out and brush the wayward piece of hair away and tuck it behind Thorin’s ears.

Thorin stirs again, saving Bilbo from his own foolishness. Feeling like a child caught with his fingers in the biscuit jar, Bilbo quickly closes his eyes shut again, attempting to steady his breathing and make it appear as if he’s still sleeping.

 

They leave for Beorn’s that day, now that they’re both feeling well — well enough — to meet up with the others and continue their journey to Mirkwood. Bilbo can see that Thorin’s still struggling with his injuries, but no matter how much the grimaces that find their way onto the Dwarf’s features in moments when Thorin thinks Bilbo’s not looking bother him, he also knows that they can’t delay any longer. They got to make up for lost time. Durin’s Day is coming closer with each passing minute.

They’re sure to keep a lookout for any Orc scouts while they’re travelling the distance to Beorn’s house, fortunately encountering none. Once or twice Bilbo thinks he can hear a bear growling, but it’s a mere faint echo carried by the wind, so low and faraway that he doesn’t know if he’s imagined it.

They talk a lot on the way, though Thorin is the one who does most of the talking while Bilbo mostly keeps quiet and listens — an uncommon occurrence for both of them.

“Tell me about it,” Bilbo says during a silent moment, keeping a firm hold on his walking stick.

“About what?”

“Erebor,” he clarifies, ”tell me about Erebor.”

Surprise fills Thorin’s features. “What do you wish to know?”

“Everything,” Bilbo replies simply, “I suppose I should at least know _something_ about it before we reach it. And that’s still months away.”

The ghost of a frown tugs at Thorin’s face. “You know what happened. Smaug—”

“No,” Bilbo cuts him off. “No, not that. I mean before. I want to know about the Erebor you grew up in. Your home.”

Thorin’s features relax slightly, and he shakes his head. “I would not even know where to start.”

“Start with anything. Start with what an impossible little brat Frerin must have been when he was younger,” Bilbo teases with a smile.

Thorin laughs at that. It is a deep laugh, and Bilbo realizes that this is the first time that he has ever heard Thorin laugh this genuinely. It suits him; the rosy color in his cheeks, the laughter lines and the way his blue eyes shine merrily make Thorin look younger and less stern.

“He was,” Thorin confirms, his eyes lighting up in the way they always do when someone recalls a happy memory one doesn’t think of very often. “He was worse than Fili and Kili, if you can imagine."

“Goodness, that bad?” Bilbo comments wryly.

Thorin nods. “He kept getting us into trouble — me and our little sister, Dis. He never listened to anyone, least of all me.” A smile dances on Thorin’s lips. “He can be very stubborn.”

“I think that’s an understatement,” Bilbo laughs.

“One time he managed to give one of the servants the slip — probably to escape one of Father’s tedious history lessons. The guards searched for him for hours and they simply were not able to find him...” As Thorin speaks, Bilbo listens intently. He watches the way not just Thorin’s eyes, but his entire demeanour lights up when he is talking about Erebor and his family. Every now and then Thorin chuckles at an especially fond memory, infecting Bilbo with his unusual cheerfulness.

The softness of the swaying grass in the wind gives way for honesty, abolishing all fear and hesitancy. It makes Bilbo feel like they are alone, alone in these fields, alone in the world. It’s easy talking to Thorin.

Time flies as Thorin tells Bilbo about Frerin and Dis, and about Erebor’s vast halls that used to be filled with golden light and cheer and song, about the kingdom’s wealth lying in the earth, in precious gems hewn from rock, and in great seams of gold running like rivers through stone.

Listening to the way Thorin describes its beauty, with words that are closer to music than mere sound, Bilbo finds it difficult not to fall in love with Erebor.

Thorin’s gaze is fixed on the distant outlines of the house before them, his eyes distant and vibrant at the same time, a wide smile spread across his face. “Sometimes I just stood there, on the highest point of the battlements, watching the people. Erebor, it... it never sleeps. For all its vastness, it is never empty or cold. It is full of life. Beautiful. There is simply no term more fitting.” Thorin looks back at Bilbo then, the warm smile never leaving his lips. “You will understand when you see it.”

“I’m sure I will,” Bilbo agrees.

In all of their countless conversations they never acknowledge their newfound sleeping arrangement. Because that’s what it is now — a daily routine, with both of them sleeping side by side every night without talking about it or questioning it.

Once they’ve arrived at Beorn’s (with only getting lost once along the way), Bilbo catches Frerin throwing them a meaningful glance on the first night, and then exchanging a knowing look with _Balin_ of all people. He decides not to let himself be bothered by it. It feels natural, making up his sleeping roll beside Thorin’s and putting his sword next to Orcrist against the wall in Beorn’s hall.

He observes that Thorin is calmer for it, though he doesn’t understand why. He just knows that if Thorin should be having a nightmare again, Bilbo will be able to be quick enough to wake him up without the others noticing. Not that he thinks that they would mind or think of Thorin any lesser for it, of course they wouldn’t. But he can see that Thorin doesn’t wish for them to know, and that’s enough for Bilbo to keep quiet about it and continue their unspoken agreement.

They’re only _sleeping_ together, after all.

Bilbo doesn’t know why Frerin apparently deems it so scandalous.

Just as Bilbo doesn’t know why the mere feeling of Thorin’s body heat next to his own makes his heart pick up speed every single night.

He also doesn’t know why he sometimes wishes they’d lie even closer together, though there’s not much space left without having the two of them practically end up tangled up in each other’s arms.

And most of all, he doesn’t know why he keeps on lying to himself.

##

 ** _T_** hank Mahal that they still have the entire morning left to rest at Beorn’s, Frerin thinks as he breathes in the clear autumn air. He’s relieved that Thorin has decided that the company would continue their journey after lunch and start crossing the distance between the Carrock and Mirkwood while they still have the light. The Skinchanger has been generous, giving them shelter, rest, and food. Despite the open dislike he shows for the Dwarven race — what else is new, really? — Frerin almost wishes they could stay a little longer.

All in all he’s really glad he didn’t have have to experience Goblin Town. Kili told him about the short time they spent there, how they had lost Bilbo along the way, how Fili led the company in Thorin’s stead, and how Gandalf turned up just in time to save them. It sounded like the plot of an adventure book, of one those that Dis used to read when she was younger. Though Frerin also surmises that his nephew probably made their escape seem far more dramatic and exciting than it really had been. Kili has a gift of seeing the world as a far brighter place than it is, he always had.

Frerin is sitting on the soft green grass in the Skinchanger’s garden, idly resting his head against one of the oak trees and enjoying the rare sound of silence. It’s a nice day — not too hot and not too cold, with stray rays of sunshine escaping through the thick crowns of the trees, providing pleasant warmth. So nice that he’s almost able to pretend that there is no quest, that they’re not riding into their imminent doom, that this is only a temporary holiday — albeit filled with a lot more dangers and near-death experiences than his holidays usually enclose.

He’s had a weak moment on the Carrock. He still struggles to admit it, but for one brief, guilt-inducing moment he had almost... approved. It was the heat of the moment, Frerin tells himself now. Too many emotions mingled together, a fatal mixture. Seeing Thorin’s eyes flutter open through his own tear-filled vision, the relief and anger trembling through his own body, the entire company being cloaked in blazing sunlight as the eagles around them had leaped into the air, a sight he’ll probably never have the chance to lay eyes on ever again. That added to not knowing how bad Bilbo’s injuries were, with the memories of Tóki still lingering in the back of his mind, scratching at his sanity and making his safe walls crumble— and then catching sight of _it_. Erebor. A faint, barely perceivable silhouette of a mountain on the edge of the horizon. So far away. But still _there_.

A strange flutter had spread through his gut then, and, surprising himself, he had repeated Thorin’s words, just to see how they’d feel on his own tongue. Home. Our home. It had felt foreign and strange, to some extent it had felt wrong, as it should. It’s not his home, it hasn’t been for over a hundred years. But still... Perhaps it can be again someday? Are there not also good memories next to the bad? They’ve already made it much farther than Frerin had ever expected them to, and Bilbo’s far more capable than he had ever believed. What if...?

No.

Frerin shakes his head at his own foolishness and naivety. He skims through his mind for something simple, something less confusing, and in a matter of a seconds the image of Thorin and Bilbo sitting together this morning at the breakfast table flares up in the back of his head, and despite everything, Frerin immediately feels himself smile. How close they had been to one another, almost sitting in each other’s laps really, as if they’ve never even heard of the concept of personal space. It’s become so obvious, so undeniable. A fool could see how infatuated Thorin is with the Hobbit. The way his eyes always linger on Bilbo just a few instances too long, just enough to become notable if one is paying attention. Then the way Bilbo looks at Thorin, Mahal, that look of complete and utter adoration. The mere thought makes Frerin chuckle.

To think that Thorin never even wanted Bilbo to be part of this journey, and now look where they are. Fate has a habit of being comically ironic.

The smile on Frerin’s face has not yet died when he hears the sound of heavy footsteps approaching, then the soft clatter of a sword being thrown in front of his feet. He narrows his eyes, putting up his hand over them to shield them from the sun, and looks at Thorin towering above him.

“What’s this?” Frerin asks.

“A sword.”

_Well, duh._

“Yes, I know it’s a sword, Thorin,” Frerin says, rolling his eyes. “What do you want me to do with it?”

“I want you to teach Bilbo how to fight,” Thorin says. “I have spoken to him about the matter, and he has agreed that he needs to learn how to properly defend himself should a similar situation arise.”

‘ _Bilbo’ is it now_ , Frerin wonders silently. _What happened to ‘Master Baggins’?_

“Is his arm well enough?” he asks aloud.

“I trust you not to put any harm to him,” Thorin says flatly, though a faint layer of worry still shines through the brittle demeanour. “You have enough experience to keep him from overly straining his limb during training.”

“Sure you want _me_ to do this?”

“You train the young Dwarrows at the guard in Ered Luin. You have trained Fili and Kili. I do not believe there is anyone better fit for it than you.”

“Yes, of course. But you’ve overseen the boys’ training more times than I can count. So why don’t _you_ teach him?”

Thorin looks taken aback by the question, and Frerin swears he can see a hint of colour rising on his brother’s cheeks. Oh, this is marvellous. “Afraid of poking him with your sword? I don’t think he’d mind, really.”

Thorin quirks an eyebrow, leaning closer as if to make sure he’s misheard. Ah, yes, that’s definitely a flush. “What?”

Frerin barely manages to suppress a grin. “I said it’s kind, really. The idea of teaching him to fight, I mean.”

Thorin glares down at him, the thick eyebrow still raised in suspicion. “So you will do it?”

Frerin considers to keep on tantalising him, see just how far he can take the suggestive remarks. Then he thinks of a better idea, a far more evil idea that will surely make Thorin explode at the mere sight, and him double over with laughter. And perhaps cause Thorin to change his mind after all. He forms a pleased smile, and Thorin’s frown only deepens at the sight of the gesture.

Frerin takes the sword into his hand and rises from the ground. “Fine, I’ll do it.”

##

 _ **A** ll right, this is far more difficult than it looks_, Bilbo thinks as he wipes the dripping sweat of his brow. And far more complex. He — foolishly — believed that you just need to be strong and hard-muscled to hold a sword, and then continue to stab and whack at whatever is coming at you until it is dead. Well, he was wrong.

Frerin is already holding back, overly careful with his own movements, trying very hard not to cut Bilbo on accident. He can see the gnawing frustration manifesting on the Dwarf’s face, and that too makes him grow rather frustrated as well.

“You’ve killed an Orc, Bilbo. An Orc!” Frerin calls out, as if that could possibly manage to motivate him. “And a Warg! Azog’s Warg at that.”

“Yes, I know,” Bilbo shoots back, annoyed, “I know! But I was also fuelled up with adrenaline at the time _and_ I had the element of surprise on my side.”

“Yes, good,” Frerin says, nodding. “It is important that you recognise that.”

“But it doesn’t help me either, does it?”

“It does. The fact that you’ve already done some fighting is an advantage, it is. We simply need to work on your foot work now, and your stance in general. And of course you will need to learn how to...”

Frerin keeps going, listing things that still need improvement. It’s a long list — _too long_ , Bilbo thinks with a grimace. His thoughts drift off, and he lets his gaze wander over Beorn’s beautiful garden, stopping when he catches sight of Thorin sitting on one off the tree stumps that are serving as seats around the wooden table. His injured foot is put up another stump, probably under Oin’s orders, even though the limping has vastly improved over the days. An enormous mug of milk is placed on the wood before him, still untouched. Thorin himself is absently smoking his pipe, seemingly lost in thought, his eyes focused on nothing in particular. He’s shed off his heavy fur-trimmed coat, enjoying the warmth of the autumn sun in his velvet jacket, the armour still visible underneath.

Strange that Thorin isn’t the one teaching him. Bilbo feels a twinge of disappointment at the thought, and he quickly shoos the feeling away. He needs to learn how to fight. Azog and his pack of Orcs is still on their trail. It’s important that he knows how to defend himself, properly, Bilbo understands that. It shouldn’t matter who’s the one teaching him, as long as learns how to handle that sword of his.

There’s a dull pain in his shin, making him turn his head and glare at Frerin. “Did you just _kick_ me?”

“Start paying attention or I’ll ask the distraction to take his inconspicuous pipe smoking elsewhere.”

 _Distraction?_ “What? I wasn’t—”

“Sure you weren’t,” comes Frerin’s wry reply.

“Well then start teaching me something I _can_ learn, instead of listing all the things I’m still not able to do,” Bilbo retorts, his voice rising.

“You want to fight?” Frerin offers, challenging him.

“Yes!”

“Then come at me, _little bunny_ ,” Frerin orders, the corners of his mouth twitching.

 _Did he just—_ Bilbo shoots a brief glance back at Thorin, seeing the Dwarf’s attention now fixed solely on Frerin and Bilbo, his eyes filled with apprehension, flickering back and forth between them. There’s a faint glimmer of curiosity dancing in them too, and Bilbo gives Thorin a disbelieving look as the Dwarf leans forward with growing interest, the pipe in his hand apparently forgotten.

“Well, come on now,” Frerin insists, “try to disarm me.”

The Dwarf spreads his feet, moving into a defensive stance. Bilbo starts running, sword raised the same way he’s seen the Dwarves do it, ready to knock Frerin off his feet.

He should have expected it, really. With no visible effort Frerin dodges his attack, parrying Bilbo’s sword away and knocking it out of his grip. _Well, I’m not going to give up now_ , Bilbo thinks, and, instinctively and without any remaining means to defend himself, he decides to go for the offence and kicks Frerin with his foot.

He should have expected _this_ too, he supposes. Without showing any indication of surprise over the attack, Frerin takes hold of his outstretched foot and dashes forwards, causing both of them to lose their balance.

The grass underneath his back is soft, so the fall hasn’t been too painful. He’s even landed on his good shoulder. What _does_ hurt is Frerin’s entire bodyweight falling down on top of him, knocking the breath out of his lungs for a moment.

Bilbo groans in pain, and when he looks up he can see that Frerin is _smiling_. “Don’t you want to get off of me? I would really appreciate being able to breathe again sometime soon.”

“Nope, not yet,” Frerin says cheerfully.

“What on earth are you doing?” Bilbo returns, slowly but surely growing cranky. Frerin is very heavy and incredibly sweaty, the warmth of his body on his own entirely too hot to bear after so much activity. It’s uncomfortable as it can be, and Bilbo tries shoving him away, with no success. “Frerin, I mean it—”

If possible, the grin on Frerin’s features only widens. “Just wait. Shouldn’t take more than a few seconds.”

“More than a few—? What are you—?”

“ _Frerin_! That’s enough for today.”

“All right, that took even less time than I thought,” Frerin utters under his breath, sounding genuinely impressed. “How’s the arm?”

“Fine,” Bilbo grumbles, the sincerity of concern in Frerin’s voice making his blood boil. The sheer nerve of this Dwarf.

“Good.”

Effortlessly, Frerin gets back on his feet. _Air, finally._ Bilbo draws a deep breath, filling his lungs with much needed oxygen.

“Master Baggins can continue his practice lessons tomorrow.” Thorin is standing before them, arms crossed and the expression in his eyes unreadable.

“It would be my pleasure.” Frerin’s grin is unwavering as he pats Thorin on the back. He leans up, uttering something into Thorin’s ear, of which Bilbo only catches something among the lines of “ _are you still sure that—_ ”, raising even more question marks in Bilbo’s head.

Still sure of what? That he should be trained? That he’s not a hopeless case? He couldn’t possibly have been _that_ bad at it.

Frerin then curtly turns his head to wink at Bilbo, causing Thorin to glare at his brother with a look in his eyes that’s downright murderous. Utterly confused, Bilbo’s eyes follow Frerin set off to disappear into Beorn’s lodgings until he’s out of sight. What on earth has _that_ been about?

“Are you all right?” Thorin’s voice is strained as he pulls Bilbo back to his feet.

“Yes,” Bilbo answers, unable to keep the puzzlement out of his voice. “I think so. Is _he_ all right?”

“Oh, believe me, he is perfectly well,” Thorin grinds out, before adding a quiet, “a bit _too_ well, if you ask me.”

“Well, I’m glad,” Bilbo says, thinking back to the image of Frerin cowering on the edge of the mountain slope, completely drenched with rain, making himself so small as if he wished to vanish into thin air — looking more like a ghost than a person. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone so... broken. “It’s nice to see him so lighthearted for a change... Even if it’s at my expense.”

“You do not think he is lighthearted?” Thorin asks. “Not many people would make that assumption.”

“He’s about as lighthearted as you are,” Bilbo says honestly. “Only he puts a lot of effort into hiding it from everyone else. Everybody deals differently with their grief, it’s just the way it is.”

A pause. “You two have grown very close.”

“Mhm,” Bilbo makes. He’s never thought about it before, but he supposes Thorin is right. Frerin and he have become friends. If one had told him that the moment he met Frerin in Bag End, with the Dwarf’s unbelievable display of rudeness and his dirty boots that had been walking all over his freshly polished floor, Bilbo would probably have laughed. Strange how things seldom turn out the way you expect them to. “I would not advise anyone to get on his bad side though — he’s absolutely terrifying when he fights.”

“When have you seen him fight?” There’s an edge to Thorin’s voice Bilbo doesn’t recognise.

When he was lurking behind Thorin and Frerin, watching the ground beneath the rest of the company go up in flames and contemplating on what to do next. He’d been invisible then, thanks to his ring. But there’s no need for Thorin to know that.

“During the fight with the Trolls?” Bilbo lies. “He’s truly skilled with that bow of his.” He’s certain that Thorin knows that Bilbo had been in no condition to take a note of his surroundings during that battle, but the Dwarf still nods at him, as if accepting that Bilbo has a secret he doesn’t wish to tell.

Before Bilbo has the chance to quickly make a move to steer the topic into a different direction, Thorin’s hand unexpectedly shoots out, coming to a stop a few inches away from Bilbo’s face, hesitating. “May I?”

Unsure of what exactly Thorin’s just asked of him, Bilbo presses his mouth into a thin line and inclines his head.

Thorin’s hand moves up, and Bilbo is able to feel a soft brush against his hair, which then turns into a barely noticeable tug against his curls. Thorin draws his hand back again, holding something between his thumb and his index finger. An oak leaf, Bilbo realises, before Thorin gently casts it away to let it fall to the ground.

“There was a leaf in your hair,” the Dwarf explains, uncommonly shy.

“Oh. Thank you,” Bilbo says, feeling the tips of ears grow hot. His hand starts twitching at his side, and he quickly puts it in front of his mouth, coughing, once. “Do you want— Do you care for a smoke? I’m afraid I smoked all of the Old Toby I brought with me, and now there is nothing left, and I don’t want to ask Gandalf, you know how he is with his weed, and I saw you smoking earlier, and I thought... Well, if you don’t mind, that is—”

“Yes,” Thorin interrupts his rambling. “Yes, I would not mind sharing my pipe weed with you.”

Bilbo’s mouth briefly quirks up into what he hopes isn’t an overly awkward smile. He starts chewing on his bottom lip as his hands begin to pat down his waistcoat pockets, searching for his pipe. “I must have left my pipe in the house next to— Wait here, I will go and fetch it.”

“You can share mine.”

Having already started to leave, Bilbo freezes on the spot, his outstretched foot placed awkwardly on the grass. It is not like he would terribly mind sharing Thorin’s pipe with him. It only seems... awfully intimate, in a way. Which it shouldn’t. It is just a pipe, nothing more.

_Get yourself together, Bilbo Baggins._

“Yes, of course,” Bilbo answers, his voice sounding unnaturally high in his own ears, “if you _really_ do not mind. I don’t want to impose—”

“No, it is no problem at all.” Thorin has already begun stuffing the pipe with his weed, now pulling out a match out of coat pocket to light it. After he’s done, he extends his arm and holds out his pipe, offering it to Bilbo.

Bilbo forms a fleeting smile as reaches out and accepts it. Their fingers brush, for just the tiniest moment, but still Bilbo’s breath hitches involuntarily, and he silently prays Thorin didn’t notice. He leads the pipe to his mouth and curls his lips around it, starting to puff. The strange and unfamiliar, but entirely unpleasant scent of Dwarven pipe-weed quickly fills up his nostrils, and he releases a content sigh.

This morning truly turned out to be a lovely one. Blazing sunshine paints the scenery in a beautiful shade of gold, amplifying the vibrance of the green and turning the scenery into a fair bliss. The birds are singing their songs, the voice high and clear, and here and there Bilbo can hear Beorn’s horses neigh.

He closes his eyes, almost able to pretend he’s home and standing in his own garden. He can feel Thorin’s gaze on him, and if that little detail causes his heart to flutter almost painfully in his chest, well, then he pays no mind to it.

“It’s a nice place here, is it not?” Bilbo remarks after some time, opening his eyes again.

Thorin gives a noncommittal hum, and then theatrically wrinkles his nose, throwing Bilbo a teasing glance. “A bit too green for my taste. All that fresh air cannot possibly be healthy.”

Bilbo chuckles. “Well, it’s not _Erebor_ , I know that.”

He puffs again, successfully forming a smoke ring.

Thorin’s eyes are focused on the slowly dissolving shape of smoke in the air as he asks, “Does it remind you of the Shire?”

Bilbo hands the pipe back to Thorin. “Yes, it does, to be honest. Except for the mountain range, that’s not quite like home. But beautiful, nonetheless.”

He reaches into his trouser pocket, pulling out the little acorn he’s picked up this morning. He stretches out his palm, showing it to Thorin. “I even picked up a keepsake.”

“You picked it up? Here in Beorn’s garden?”

Bilbo nods. “Yes.”

Thorin curls his lips around the pipe, attempting to make a smoke ring of his own. It comes out as a big cloud of smoke, barely round in shape at all. Bilbo turns his head to hide a smile.

“So you stole it.”

Bilbo’s mouth falls open, and he turns around again to gape at Thorin.

“So you are not a grocer, but a burglar after all. Another thing I was wrong about,” the Dwarf continues, the expression on his face carefully neutral and serious.

Bilbo’s chest puffs up, and he raises a finger, closing his mouth just to open it again. “Excuse me? I did not steal it. It’s an acorn! An _acorn_ , Thorin, it was lying on the ground, _anyone_ could have— You’re joking.”

The grin that has spread over Thorin’s features is teasing, to say the least, if not downright cheeky. “Wait a minute— did Thorin Oakenshield just make a _joke_?”

Thorin proceeds to mockingly incline his head, the brazen smile still on his face. “I suppose I might just have, _Master Burglar._ ”

The shift in Thorin’s temper, the uncommon cheekiness almost reminds him of that of Kili, and Bilbo begins to wonder if that’s how Thorin had been like before. Before the dragon had attacked, before half of his family was killed and the burden of a kingdom fell down on his shoulders, destroying every ounce of ease and possibilities of being anyone else than someone whose main focus lies on the well-being of his people.

This Thorin before him is carefree and untroubled, full of easy smiles and bad jokes, free of his perpetual burdens and worries. It’s different. It’s... nice.

“And what do you intend to do with it?” Thorin asks him, sounding genuinely curious.

“The acorn? Keep it safe.”

“And then? What use is a seed going to be?”

“I’ll hold onto it, and when all of this is over and I’m back home again, I will plant in my own garden,” Bilbo explains. “In Bag End.”

Thorin’s lips twitch. The smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “A rather poor prize to take back to the Shire.”

Bilbo gives a quick smile. “One day it’ll grow. And every time I look at it I’ll remember. Remember everything that happened, everything I had the chance to see.” He averts his eyes for a second. “Everyone I’ve gotten to know. A way of carrying the memories back home with me.”

“It’s so small,” Thorin muses quietly. “So fragile and easy to get lost or destroyed. The road before us is a long and weary one, and undoubtedly full of dangers we still have to overcome. How can you be so certain to ensure its survival?”

“Because I have hope,” Bilbo says simply. “We have already endured so many perils during our travels, and we are still here, are we not? Yes, it’s small and fragile now, but after some care and tending it will grow into one of the strongest trees there is. Eventually.”

Thorin keeps staring at him, confusion mingled with something close to astonishment draping his features. He tilts his head and pushes his brows together. The gesture has become so familiar to him that Bilbo feels the corners of his mouth rise. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You are truly enigmatic.”

Bilbo gives an amused snort. “Enigmatic? Me?” He’s a simple Hobbit from the Shire, quite respectable, yes, but nothing about him could possible be described as _enigmatic_.

Thorin’s expression is serious as he answers, “You keep surprising me.”

“Is that good or bad?” Bilbo tilts his head, mirroring Thorin’s stance.

“Good,” the Dwarf says. Then, after a long moment, “it is good.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter and much lighter chapter for once. I think they deserved a little bit of pranks and lightheartedness in-between all the angst and drama :D  
> 


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